LIBRARY 

UNIVERSUY  OF 

CAtlFOHHM 

SAN  DlfQ© 


V  hi 


4Sp  SDemetra  Safea 

(MRS.  KENNETH-BROWN) 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  ORIENT. 
IN   THE   SHADOW   OF    ISLAM.       Illustrated. 
HAREM  LI  K :  Some  pages  from  the  Life  of  Turk 
ish  Women. 
FINELLA    IN    FAIRYLAND. 


By  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kenneth-Brown 
THE   DUKE'S   PRICE. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


A  CHILD  OF  THE  ORIENT 


A     CHILD 
OF     THE     ORIENT 


BY 


DEMETRA  VAKA 

(MRS.  KENNETH-BROWN) 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

MDCCCCXIV 


COPYRIGHT,    1914,    BY    DEMETRA    KENNETH- BROWN 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  April  iqi^ 


To  TRUMBULL  WHITE 

EDITOR   AND    FRIEND,    WHOSE   APPRECIATION 

AND    ENCOURAGEMENT    HELPED    TO    SMOOTH 

THE   HARD   ROAD    OF  A   BEGINNER 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  TOKEN 3 

II.  ECHOES  OF  1821 8 

III.  OTHER  FACES,  OTHER  PHASES     ...    15 

IV.  DjIMLAH 24 

V.  WE  AND  THEY 30 

VI.  AUNT  KALLIROE 36 

VII.  IN  THE  HOLLOW  OF  ALLAH'S  HAND  .    .    46 

VIII.    YlLDIRIM 60 

IX.    I  AM  REMINDED  OF  MY  SONS  AGAIN      .      .      73 

X.  THE  GARDEN  GODDESS 85 

XI.  MISDEEDS in 

XII.    HOW   I    WAS    SOLD    TO    ST.    GEORGE.      .    IIQ 

XIII.  THE  MASTER  OF  THE  FOREST     .    .    .134 

XIV.  ALI  BABA,  MY  CAIQUE-TCHI    .    .    .    .158 
XV.  MY  LADY  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN  ....  167 

XVI.  CHAKENDE,  THE  SCORNED 195 

XVII.  A  GREAT  LADY  OF  STAMBOUL     .    .    .  214 
XVIII.  THE     INVENTIVENESS     OF     SEMMEYA 

HANOUM 224 

vii 


XIX.  THE  CHIVALRY  OF  ARIF  BEY     .    .     .  236 
XX.  IN  THE  WAKE  OF  COLUMBUS      .    .    .  255 

XXI.  IN  REAL  AMERICA 271 

XXII.  BACK  TO  TURKEY 287 


A  CHILD   OF  THE  ORIENT 


A  CHILD   OF  THE   ORIENT 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    TOKEN 

ON  the  morning  of  my  fifth  birthday,  just  as  I 
awoke  from  sleep,  my  great-uncle  came  into  my  room, 
and,  standing  over  my  bed,  said  with  a  seriousness 
little  befitting  my  age:  - 

"To-day,  despoinis,  you  are  five  years  old.  I  wish 
you  many  happy  returns  of  the  day. " 

He  drew  up  a  chair,  and  sat  down  by  my  bed. 
Carefully  unfolding  a  piece  of  paper,  he  brought 
forth  a  small  Greek  flag. 

"Do  you  know  what  this  is?" 

I  nodded. 

"Do  you  know  what  it  stands  for?" 

Before  I  could  think  of  an  adequate  reply,  he 
leaned  toward  me  and  said  earnestly,  his  fiery  black 
eyes  holding  mine :  — 

"It  stands  for  the  highest  civilization  the  world 
has  ever  known.  It  stands  for  Greece,  who  has  taught 
the  world.  Take  it  and  make  your  prayers  by  it." 

I  accepted  it,  and  caressed  it.  Its  silky  texture 
pleased  my  touch.  Its  heavenly  blue  color  fascinated 
my  eyes,  while  the  white  cross,  emblem  of  my  reli- 

3 


gion  as  well  as  of  my  country,  filled  my  childish  heart 
with  a  noble  thrill. 

My  great-uncle  bent  over  nearer  to  me. 

"In  your  veins  flows  the  blood  of  a  wonderful  race; 
yet  you  live,  as  I  have  lived,  under  an  alien  yoke  - 
a  yoke  Asiatic  and  uncivilized.  The  people  who  rule 
here  to-day  in  the  place  of  your  people  are  barbar 
ous  and  cruel,  and  worship  a  false  god.  Remember 
all  this  —  and  hate  them !  You  cannot  carry  this 
flag,  because  you  are  a  girl;  but  you  can  bring  up 
your  sons  to  do  the  work  that  remains  for  the  Greeks 
to  do." 

He  left  his  chair,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room ; 
then  came  again  and  stood  beside  my  bed. 

"Sixty-one  years  ago  we  rose.  For  nine  consecu 
tive  years  we  fought,  and  to-day  two  million  Greeks 
are  free  —  and  Athens  with  its  Acropolis  is  protected 
by  this  flag.  But  the  greater  part  of  the  Greek  land 
is  still  under  the  Mussulman  yoke,  and  St.  Sophia 
is  profaned  by  the  Mohammedan  creed.  Grow  up 
remembering  that  all  that  once  was  Greece  must 
again  belong  to  Greece;  for  the  Greek  civilization 
cannot  and  must  not  die." 

He  went  away,  leaving  me  with  thoughts  too  vast 

for  a  child  of  five  years,  too  big  for  a  child  that  was 

not  even  strong.  Yet  even  at  that  age  I  knew  a  great 

deal  about  the  past  of  Greece,  and  better  yet  did  I 

4 


know  of  the  fight  of  those  nine  years,  which  had  made 
the  little  flag  I  was  caressing  again  a  flag  among  free 
nations.  I  folded  and  unfolded  the  miniature  flag, 
which  my  sons  must  some  day  carry  forward. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  February.  Outside  a  storm 
was  raging.  I  could  hear  the  angry  Sea  of  Marmora 
beating  violently  against  the  coast,  as  if  it  would 
fain  destroy  with  its  liquid  force  the  solidity  of  the 
earth.  And  the  rain,  imitating  the  sea,  was  beating 
mightily  against  the  window-panes,  while  the  wind 
was  forcing  the  tall,  stalwart  pines,  to  bend  hum 
bly  to  the  earth.  Half  of  the  elements  were  doing 
violence  to  the  other  half,  —  as  if  they  were  Greeks  de 
stroying  the  Turks,  or  Turks  oppressing  the  Greeks. 
•  It  was  a  gloomy  birthday,  yet  an  exaltation  pos 
sessed  me.  I  kept  on  stroking  the  little  flag.  I  loved 
it,  and  with  all  the  fervor  of  my  five  years  I  vowed 
to  do  my  duty  by  it. 

The  door  opened  softly,  and  Kiamele,  my  little 
Turkish  attendant,  came  in.  Quickly  I  tucked  away 
the  tiny  flag. 

"  Good-morning,  Rose  Petal. "  She  kneeled  by  my 
bed,  and  putting  her  arms  around  me,  smothered  me 
with  kisses.  "So  we  are  five  years  old  to-day  — 
pretty  old,  I  declare!  We  shall  be  looking  for  a  hus 
band  very  soon.  And  now  show  me  what  the  great- 
uncle  gave  you. " 

5 


Her  face  was  droll  and  piquant.  Her  eyes  pos 
sessed  infinite  capacity  for  expression.  That  I  loved 
her  better  than  any  one  else  at  the  time  was  undeni 
able.  And  only  a  few  minutes  ago  I  had  been  told 
to  hate  her  race. 

I  entwined  my  fingers  with  hers.  "Do  you  love 
me,  Kiamele?"  I  asked. 

"After  Allah,  I  love  none  better." 

"I  wish  you  did  love  me  better  than  Allah,"  I 
said,  "for  then  I  could  make  you  a  Christian." 

She  shook  her  head  drolly.  "No,  no,  I  like 
Allah." 

"But  then,"  I  protested,  "if  you  like  Allah,  you 
must  hate  me." 

"Hate  you!  You,  whom  I  love  better  than  my 
heart!" 

"You've  got  to;  for  I  am  a  Greek,  and  you  are  a 
Turk." 

She  folded  me  in  her  arms.  "What  a  funny  baby 
—  and  this  on  your  birthday!  Now  don't  talk  fool 
ishness.  Show  me  your  presents. " 

From  under  my  pillow,  where  I  had  tucked  it,  I 
produced  the  little  flag. 

She  gazed  at  it,  her  head  cocked  on  one  side. 

"What's  this?" 

"This,"  I  said  with  emphasis,  "is  the  flag  of  my 
country  —  and  my  birthday  present. " 
6 


"What  a  funny  present,"  she  murmured.  "And 
is  this  all  the  grand  old  gentleman  gave  you?" 

I  was  disappointed  at  her  reception  of  it,  and  to 
save  my  little  flag  from  feeling  the  mortification,  I 
hugged  it  and  kissed  it.  I  wanted  very  much  to  ex 
plain  to  Kiamele  all  that  it  stood  for,  and  how  my 
sons  some  day  must  carry  it  forward ;  but  how  could 
I,  since  to  show  my  allegiance  to  that  flag  I  must  hate 
her,  my  " bestest "  of  friends?  So  I  said  nothing,  and 
on  that,  my  fifth  birthday,  I  began  to  see  that  battles 
did  not  exist  only  between  people,  storms  did  not 
rage  only  among  the  elements  of  nature,  but  that 
heart  and  mind  could  be  at  such  variance  as  to  cause 
conflicts  similar  to  those  taking  place  outside  my 
window. 


CHAPTER  H 

ECHOES   OF    l82I 

OWING  to  certain  circumstances,  I  was  not  living 
with  my  immediate  family,  but  was  under  the  care 
of  my  father's  uncle.  He  and  I  lived  on  one  of  those 
islands  which  rise  high  above  the  Sea  of  Marmora; 
and  our  near  horizon  was  the  Asiatic  coast  of  Turkey, 
which  stretched  itself  in  the  blue  waters  like  a  beauti 
ful  odalisque.  We  lived  in  an  old  huge  house,  which 
belonged  to  him,  and  which  was  far  away  from  any 
other  habitation.  The  sea  was  in  front,  the  moun 
tains  behind,  and  thick  woodland  on  the  other  two 
sides. 

From  the  time  I  could  remember,  my  uncle  con 
versed  with  me  as  if  I  were  grown  up,  yet  I  felt  that 
he  held  me  in  contempt  because  I  was  a  girl  and  could 
not  carry  arms.  Life  contained  nothing  for  him  be 
yond  the  hope  of  waging  warfare  against  the  Turks. 

He  had  been  only  a  lad  in  1821  when  the  Greeks 
had  risen  in  desperation  to  throw  off  the  Mussulman 
yoke.  Enlisting  among  the  first,  he  had  fought  during 
the  entire  nine  years.  Subsequently  he  fought  in 
every  one  of  the  uprisings  of  Crete.  When  not  fight 
ing,  he  was  back  in  Turkey,  in  his  home,  where  he 
8 


thought,  studied,  and  sometimes  wrote  inflamma 
tory  articles  for  the  Greek  reviews. 

At  times  he  had  tremendous  physical  suffering, 
mementoes  of  his  many  battles.  On  those  days  I 
did  not  see  him.  He  possessed  that  noble  and  rare 
quality  of  being  ashamed  of  his  bodily  ailments.  But 
after  my  fifth  birthday  I  was  present  on  many  days 
when  mental  anguish  possessed  him.  On  such  days 
he  would  stride  up  and  down  his  vast  gloomy  rooms, 
talking  of  the  Greek  race  and  of  the  yoke  under  which 
so  large  a  part  of  it  was  living. 

He  would  stand  by  the  window  and  tell  me  about 
Crete,  pointing,  as  if  the  island  were  visible  from 
where  he  stood  —  and  I  believe  that  in  spite  of  the 
distance,  he  actually  saw  it,  for  it  was  ever  present 
in  his  mind,  and  he  knew  every  corner  of  it. 

"There  it  lies,"  he  would  say,  "lapped  by  the 
waves  of  the  Mediterranean;  but  were  the  mighty 
sea  to  pass  over  it,  it  could  not  wash  away  the  noble 
Cretan  blood  which  drenches  it.  It  is  soaked  with 
it,  and  it  shall  be  blood-soaked  until  the  Mussulman 
yoke  has  been  wrenched  from  it  —  or  till  there  is  no 
more  Cretan  blood  to  shed. " 

Or  he  would  cry  out:  "Don't  you  hear  the  shrieks 
of  the  Cretan  women  as  they  leap  into  the  foaming 
sea,  holding  fast  to  their  hearts  their  little  ones? 
Yes!  they  would  rather  meet  their  death  in  the 

9 


merciless  but  clean  sea,  than  fall  living  into  the 
hands  of  the  vile  Turkish  soldiery.  Oh !  my  God  — 
my  Christian  God!  —  how  can  you  permit  it?" 

He  would  bow  his  head  on  his  arms  and  remain 
motionless,  until  the  feeling  which  was  choking  him 
had  passed.  Then,  in  a  subdued  tone,  he  would 
resume:  "Crete!  Crete!  brave,  indomitable  Crete 
—  always  victorious,  yet  always  handed  back  to  the 
Turks  by  Christian  Europe.  My  beautiful  Crete, 
when  shalt  thou  be  free?" 

i:  It  was  on  such  days  that  he  exhorted  me  to  re 
member  the  little  Greek  flag  he  had  given  me,  and 
all  that  it  stood  for.  On  other  days,  when  he  was 
calmer,  he  took  me  systematically  with  him  through 
the  entire  nine  years  of  the  Greek  Revolution,  and 
by  him  I  was  carried  through  all  its  glorious  battles. 

He  had  fought  first  under  the  leadership  of  Marco 
Bozzaris,  and  he  entertained  for  this  heroic  chief 
an  admiration  amounting  to  worship. 

"We  were  only  a  handful,  mostly  lads,  at  first," 
he  would  say,  with  a  happy  smile  on  his  saddened 
face.  "Yes,  we  were  mostly  lads,  and  Marco  himself 
a  little  over  thirty.  But  how  we  did  obey  him,  and 
how  we  did  fight!" 

Here  he  would  lose  himself  in  memory  for  a  while. 

"I  can  see  Marco  now,  seated  cross-legged  on  the 
ground,  a  crude  map  of  his  own  make  before  him, 
10 


we  bending  over  him.  'Here,  boys,'  he  would  say, 
pointing  to  the  map,  -  - '  here  is  where  we  fight  the 
Turks  to-morrow,  and  by  night-time  we  shall  carry 
our  holy  flag  farther  along.  We  do  —  or  we  die ! ' 
Then  the  handful  of  us  would  kneel  and  kiss  the 
flag,  and  swear  by  to-morrow  to  carry  it  farther  along 
—  or  to  die.  And  we  always  carried  it  farther  along. " 

He  described  Marco  Bozzaris  so  vividly  to  me, 
that  when  one  day  he  showed  me  a  picture  which  he 
had  smuggled  into  Turkey  for  my  benefit,  I  instantly 
cried:  "Why  that  is  the  great  Bozzaris  —  your 
Marco!" 

I  believe  that  I  never  pleased  him  more  in  my  life 
than  by  this.  He  actually  kissed  me. 

Next  to  Bozzaris,  the  man  he  admired  most  and 
talked  of  most  was  the  intrepid  mariner,  Constantin 
Kanaris. 

"The  Turkish  fleet  was  blazing  with  lights,"  he 
told  me,  "for  the  Kabitan  Pasha  was  celebrating. 
One  of  the  warships  was  filled  with  Greek  maidens, 
ranging  from  twelve  to  eighteen.  They  had  been 
carried  off  _^  that  day  without  distinction  of  class  or 
name.  The  daughters  of  the  great  Greek  chieftains 
and  of  the  commonest  sailors  had  been  herded  to 
gether,  and  brought  on  this  battleship  to  be  made  the 
victims  of  the  night.  Word  of  this  had  come  to  us. 
We  sat  gloomily  around  a  rude  wooden  table,  saying 

ii 


not  a  word.    Then  Constantin  Kanaris  spoke,  his 
voice  hoarse,  his  face  terrible  to  look  at:  - 

" 'Take  them  away  we  cannot  —  unless  God  sends 
us  ships  from  heaven  at  this  minute.  But  if  we  can 
not  take  them  away,  we  can  at  least  send  them  to 
God,  pure  as  he  has  given  them  to  us. ' 

"We  listened  breathless,  while  he  unfolded  to  us 
his  daring  plan.  He  would  go  out  in  a  small  row- 
boat  to  the  battleship  alone.  'Never  fear!  I  may 
not  come  back  —  but  the  battleship  will  be  blown 
up.' 

"He  left  us  —  so  dumb  with  despair  that  for  a 
long,  long  time  none  of  us  spoke.  Hours  passed  since 
he  had  gone;  then  a  far  distant  boom  made  the  still 
air  tremble,  and  we,  rushing  to  the  shore,  saw  the 
sky  bathed  in  burning  colors. 

"We  lads  were  for  shouting  for  joy,  but  at  the 
sight  of  the  older  men,  whose  heads  hung  low  on 
their  breasts,  we  remembered  that  none  yet  knew 
whose  were  the  daughters  just  sent  to  God.  Each 
father  there,  maybe,  had  a  child  to  mourn. " 

My  uncle's  friendship  lasted  as  long  as  Kanaris 
lived,  and  at  times  he  went  to  see  him  in  Greece. 
Once  he  reproached  me  bitterly  for  having  been  born 
a  few  years  too  late  to  be  taken  to  the  home  of 
Kanaris,  to  behold  the  great  chieftain  and  to  be 
blessed  by  him. 
12 


After  the  untimely  death  of  Marco  Bozzaris  at 
Karpenissi,  my  great-uncle  fought  under  other  great 
leaders,  until  in  turn,  in  the  last  three  years  of  the 
revolution,  he  himself  became  a  leader. 

Of  his  own  exploits  he  never  spoke.  He  entrusted 
this  task  to  posterity.  It  was  of  this  and  that 
other  leader  he  loved  to  speak,  and  as  his  narrative 
progressed,  all  the  names  which  have  immortalized 
the  modern  history  of  Greece  passed  before  me  — 
passed  before  me  not  as  names  from  a  book,  but  as 
men  of  flesh  and  blood,  in  their  everyday  aspects 
as  well  as  in  their  heroic  moments. 

And  I,  seated  on  my  little  stool,  with  the  big  book 
I  had  brought  him  to  read  me  still  unopened  on  my 
lap,  would  listen  enthralled,  wishing  that  I  might 
have  lived  when  my  uncle  had,  and  might  with  him 
have  kneeled  in  front  of  Marco  Bozzaris,  to  kiss  the 
Greek  flag,  and  to  swear  that  I  would  do  or  die. 

One  day,  when  he  was  more  violent  than  usual 
against  the  Turks,  when  he  almost  wept  at  the 
thought  of  living  under  the  Turkish  yoke,  an  in 
spiration  came  to  me. 

"Uncle!"  I  cried,  "why  do  we  live  here?  Why 
don't  we  go  to  live  where  the  Greek  flag  flies?" 

Abruptly  he  stopped  in  his  walk  before  me,  his 
tall,  thin  figure  erect,  his  eyes  aflame. 

"Go  away  from  here?"  he  cried.  "Go  away  from 

13 


here,  and  be  a  traitor?  Yes,  that  is  what  so  many 
thousands  did  in  1453.  They  abandoned  their 
hearths  and  the  graves  of  their  ancestors.  They 
abandoned  their  lands  and  their  schools,  and  above 
all  they  abandoned  St.  Sophia!  To  go  away  from 
here  is  to  forsake  our  country  —  forever  to  relin 
quish  it  to  the  conqueror.  We  must  stay  here!"  he 
thundered,  "and  bear  with  our  patrida  the  yoke  of 
slavery,  till  the  day  shall  come,  when,  again  strong, 
we  shall  rise  to  break  that  yoke,  and  hear  again  a 
Christian  priest  in  St.  Sophia!" 

I  was  seven  years  old  when  he  died;  yet  I  felt  al 
most  as  old  as  he.  Having  never  seen  other  children, 
and  therefore  having  never  shared  in  childish  frolics, 
my  world  consisted  of  the  woes  of  Greece. 

His  death  was  a  terrible  shock  to  me,  and  yet 
I  cannot  say  that  I  quite  understood  what  death 
meant.  For  days  and  days  I  pondered  as  to  where 
he  was,  and  whether  he  were  comfortable  or  not. 
I  saw  his  body,  wrapped  in  a  huge  Greek  flag,  the 
ikon  of  his  patron  saint  clasped  in  his  cold  hands, 
lowered  to  rest  beside  the  men  of  his  family,  who, 
like  him,  had  lived  and  died  under  the  Turkish  yoke. 


CHAPTER  III 

OTHER  FACES,  OTHER  PHASES 

MY  uncle  was  now  gone  —  gone,  let  us  hope,  to 
where  he  was  to  find  rest  from  racial  hatred,  rest 
from  national  ambition. 

Gone  though  he  was,  his  influence  over  my  life 
was  never  to  go  —  entirely  —  in  spite  of  radical 
modifications.  He  had  enriched  my  childhood  with 
things  beyond  my  age,  yet  things  which  I  would  not 
give  up  for  the  most  normal  and  sweetest  of  child 
hoods.  He  had  taught  me  the  Greek  Revolution  as 
no  book  could  ever  have  done;  and  he  had  given  me 
an  idea  of  the  big  things  expected  of  men.  He  had 
given  me  a  worship  for  my  race  amounting  to  super 
stition,  and  bequeathed  to  me  a  hatred  for  the  Turks 
which  would  have  warped  my  intelligence,  had  I  not 
been  blessed  almost  from  my  infancy  with  a  power 
of  observing  for  myself,  and  also  had  not  good  for 
tune  given  me  little  Turkish  Kiamele  as  a  constant 
companion. 

In  the  abstract,  the  Turks,  from  the  deeds  they  had 
done,  had  taken  their  place  in  my  mind  as  the  crudest 
of  races;  yet  in  the  concrete  that  race  was  represented 
by  dark-eyed,  pretty  little  Kiamele,  the  sweetest 
and  brightest  memory  of  an  otherwise  bleak  infancy. 


Alongside  the  deeds  of  the  Greeks,  and  the  blood 
shed  of  the  Greek  Revolution,  I  had  from  her  the 
Arabian  Nights.  She  told  them  to  me  in  her  pic 
turesque,  dramatic  way,  becoming  a  horse  when  a 
horse  had  to  come  into  the  tale,  and  any  other  animal 
when  that  animal  appeared;  and  she  imitated  them 
with  so  great  an  ingenuity  that  she  suggested  the 
very  presence  of  the  animal,  with  little  tax  on  my 
imagination.  She  talked  with  a  thick  voice  when  a 
fat  man  spoke,  and  a  terribly  funny,  piping  voice 
when  a  thin  one  spoke.  She  draped  herself  exqui 
sitely  with  her  veil  when  a  princess  came  into  the 
tale;  and  her  face  assumed  the  queerest  look  when 
the  ev-sahibs,  or  supernatural  sprites,  appeared.  Had 
it  not  been  for  her  and  her  Arabian  Nights,  I  should 
never  have  laughed,  or  known  there  was  a  funny  side 
to  life;  for  I  had  little  enough  occasion  for  laughter 
with  my  uncle.  Even  to  this  day,  when  I  am  amused, 
I  laugh  in  the  Oriental  way  of  my  little  Kiamele. 

After  the  death  of  my  uncle,  the  course  of  my  life 
was  changed.  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  my  own 
family,  who  now  came  to  live  on  the  island,  in  the 
same  old  house  where  he  and  I  had  lived.  It  took 
me  a  long  time  to  adjust  myself  to  the  new  life,  so 
different  from  the  old,  and  especially  to  meet  chil 
dren,  and  to  try  to  talk  with  them.  I  had  known 
that  other  children  existed,  but  I  thought  that  each 
16 


one  was  brought  up  alone  on  an  island  with  a  great- 
uncle,  who  taught  it  the  history  of  its  race. 

My  father  and  I  quickly  became  friends,  and  I 
soon  began  to  talk  with  him  in  the  grown-up  way 
I  had  talked  with  my  uncle,  much  to  his  amusement, 
I  could  see. 

One  day  when  I  was  sitting  in  his  lap,  with  my 
arms  encircling  his  neck,  I  said  to  him:  — 

"Father,  do  you  feel  the  Turkish  yoke?" 

He  gave  a  start.  "What  are  you  talking  about, 
child?" 

It  was  then  I  told  him  what  I  knew  of  our  past, 
and  of  our  obligations  toward  the  future:  how  some 
day  we  must  rise  and  throw  off  that  yoke,  and  hear 
the  holy  liturgy  again  chanted  in  St.  Sophia. 

He  listened,  interested,  yet  a  flush  of  anger  over 
spread  his  face.  He  patted  me,  and  murmured  to 
himself:  "And  we  thought  she  would  grow  stronger 
living  in  the  country. " 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  me.  "I  would  not  bother 
much,  just  now,  about  those  things,"  he  said.  "I'd 
play,  and  grow  strong. " 

"But,  father,"  I  protested,  "uncle  told  me  never 
to  forget  those  things  —  not  even  for  a  day:  to  re 
member  them  constantly,  and  to  bring  up  my  sons 
to  carry  forward  the  flag." 

"You  see,"   my  father  replied,   very  seriously, 


"you  are  not  eight  yet,  and  I  do  not  believe  in  early 
marriages;  so  you  have  twelve  years  before  you  are 
married,  and  thirteen  before  you  have  a  son.  During 
those  years  there  are  a  lot  of  nice  and  funny  things 
to  think  about  —  and,  above  all,  you  must  grow 
strong  physically. " 

I  must  say  I  was  quite  disappointed  at  the  way 
he  took  things.  I  was  quite  miserable  about  it,  and 
might  have  become  morbid  —  for  I  liked  to  cling  to 
the  big  dreams  of  the  future  —  had  it  not  been  for 
my  half-brother.  He  was  fourteen  years  older  than 
I,  and  he,  too,  like  my  uncle,  lived  in  the  past.  His 
past,  however,  went  beyond  my  uncle's  past;  and 
from  him  I  was  to  learn,  not  of  the  woes  of  Greece, 
but  of  the  glory  of  Greece,  of  her  golden  age,  and  of 
the  time  when  she,  Queen  of  the  World,  was  first  in 
civilization. 

My  horizon  was  gilded  also  by  the  Greek  mythol 
ogy  —  that  wonderful  Greek  mythology,  which  to 
my  brother  was  living,  not  dead.  He  spoke  one  day 
in  such  a  way  of  Olympus  that  I  exclaimed :  - 

"You  talk  as  if  Olympus  really  existed,  and  were 
not  only  mythology." 

"Of  course,  it  exists,"  he  replied.  "I  used  to  live 
there  myself,  until  they  punished  me  by  sending  me 
down  here.  I  cannot  tell  you  all  the  particulars,  be 
cause  when  Zeus  is  about  to  exile  one,  one  is  given  a 
18 


potion  which  puts  him  to  sleep,  and  while  asleep  he 
is  carried  beyond  the  limits  of  the  Olympian  realm, 
and  is  left  outside  to  live  the  life  of  a  man.  But 
though  he  forgets  a  great  deal,  —  as,  for  example, 
how  to  find  his  way  back,  —  he  is  left  with  the 
memory  of  his  former  existence.  That  is  his  punish 
ment.  After  his  death,  however,  he  is  forgiven  and 
returns  to  Olympus  again." 

I  stared  at  my  brother,  but  his  calm  assurance 
and  the  faith  I  had  in  him  made  me  implicitly  be 
lieve  him  —  and  to-day  I  think  he  really  more  than 
half  believed  it  himself. 

After  this  I  was  not  surprised  to  have  him  tell  me 
that  the  gods  of  Greece  were  not  dead,  but  forced  to 
retire  to  the  mountains  of  Olympus  because  Chris 
tianity  had  to  come  first.  "You  see,  little  one,  you 
will  presently  learn  the  Old  Testament,  as  you  are 
now  being  taught  the  New  —  and  as  I  am  teaching 
you  mythology.  You  will  find  out,  as  you  grow  older, 
that  you  need  all  three  to  balance  things  up." 

From  him  I  not  only  heard  the  names  of  the  great 
Greek  writers,  but  he  read  to  me  by  the  hour  from 
them.  At  first  they  were  very  hard  to  understand, 
since  the  Greek  we  speak  is  so  much  simpler  than 
the  Greek  of  Aristophanes  and  Sophocles;  but  since, 
after  all,  it  is  the  same  language,  I  learned  to  recite  it 
pretty  well  even  before  I  knew  how  to  read  and  write. 

19 


It  was  from  my  brother,  too,  that  I  learned  to 
know  the  Greek  Revolution  as  our  great  modern 
poets  sang  of  it;  and  before  the  year  was  over  I  could 
recite  the  Chani  of  Gravia  and  other  celebrated  poems, 
as  American  children  recite  Mother  Goose. 

One  day  there  came  into  our  garden,  where  my 
brother  and  I  sat,  a  handsome  young  man,  saying: 
"They  told  me  you  were  in  the  garden,  so  I  came  to 
find  you."  He  sat  down  by  us  and  plunged  into  a 
conversation  about  a  certain  game  they  were  getting 
up,  and  of  which  my  brother  was  the  captain.  We 
escorted  him  to  the  gate,  when  he  left  us,  and  after 
he  was  out  of  earshot  I  asked  my  brother  who  he  was, 
since  he  had  forgotten  to  introduce  us. 

"It  is  Arif  Bey,"  he  replied,  rather  curtly. 

"You  don't  mean  a  real  Turk?"  I  cried. 

"Why,  yes." 

"But  you  seemed  so  friendly  with  him!" 

"Why  not?  I  like  him  first-rate." 

"How  can  you  be  friends  with  a  Turk?" 

"He's  an  awfully  good  fellow." 

"But  ought  we  to  like  them,  and  treat  them  as  if 
they  were  our  equals?" 

"Well,  what  can  we  do,  sister?  They  are  the 
masters  here,  and  we  belong  to  the  Turkish  official 
dom.  We  have  got  to  be  friendly  with  them. " 

"But  we  ought  to  hate  them  just  the  same,  since 
20 


we  must  kill  them.  Would  n't  you  kill  him,  if  you 
could?" 

"I  don't  think  I  hate  Arif  Bey;  and  as  for  killing 
him,  I  hope  I  shall  never  have  to. " 

"But  if  we  are  not  to  kill  them,  how  are  we  going 
to  be  free  again,  and  how  can  the  Greek  flag  fly  over 
the  Galata  Tower?" 

"Look  here,  baby,  what  you  need  is  to  play  more 
and  not  think  so  much.  Now  come,  and  I'll  teach 
you  to  climb  trees,  and  for  every  tree  you  climb  by 
yourself,  I'll  tell  you  a  tale  about  the  time  when  I 
lived  on  Mount  Olympus." 

I  was  agile  by  nature,  in  spite  of  being  frail,  and  in 
no  time  I  learned  to  climb  even  the  tallest  trees  on 
our  place,  an  occupation  which  delighted  me  as  much 
as  anything  I  had  ever  done. 

Arif  Bey  I  saw  again  and  again,  for  I  became  the 
constant  companion  of  either  my  father  or  my 
brother,  and  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  hate 
him.  A  few  years  older  than  my  brother,  he  was 
taller  and  his  shoulders  were  broader,  and  he  carried 
himself  with  a  dash  worthy  of  the  old  demigods  of 
Greece.  As  for  his  eyes,  they  were  as  kind  and  good 
to  look  into  as  those  of  my  brother.  What  is  more, 
I  was  never  afraid  in  his  presence,  and  one  day  he 
spoke  so  tenderly  of  his  sick  mother  that  I  pretty 
much  changed  my  mind  about  the  delight  of  seeing 

21 


him  killed.  It  was  then  that  I  talked  very  eulogisti- 
cally  about  him  to  my  brother;  but  one  never  can 
tell  what  grown-ups  will  do.  They  are  the  most  in 
consistent  of  human  beings. 

"Look  here,  baby,"  he  interrupted  my  praises  of 
Arif  Bey,  "Arif  is  handsome  and  a  nice  chap,  and  I 
can  trust  him  up  to  a  certain  point;  but  don't  get 
to  thinking  he  is  as  good  as  we  are.  A  Turk  never  is. 
They  have  enough  Greek  blood  in  them  to  look  de 
cent,  but  they  have  enough  Turkish  left  to  be  Asiat 
ics,  and  don't  forget  that.  An  Asiatic  is  something 
inferior  at  best.  Look  at  Arif  Bey  himself,  for  ex 
ample.  He  is  about  the  best  of  them,  and  yet,  barely 
twenty-seven,  he  has  two  wives  already.  There  is 
Asia  for  you!" 

I  was  quite  perplexed  in  regard  to  the  proper  at 
titude  of  mind  toward  the  Turks.  The  only  girl  I 
knew  was  Kiamele  —  and  I  adored  her.  The  only 
man  was  Arif  Bey  —  and  he  got  so  mixed  up  in  my 
mind  with  the  demigods  that  I  did  not  even  mind  his 
two  wives.  My  uncle  had  been  dead  for  almost  a 
year,  and  I  had  no  one  to  incite  me  against  them. 
The  old  Greek  writers  and  the  beautiful  mythology 
were  beginning  to  make  me  tolerant  toward  every 
body.  I  began  to  lose  the  feeling  of  the  yoke,  since 
Greece  had  once  been  the  greatest  of  great  countries. 
When  one  has  a  past  achievement  to  be  proud  of, 

22 


one  bears  a  temporary  humiliation  better,  —  and 
there  was  so  much  in  the  Greek  past  that  the  weight 
of  the  yoke  lifted  perceptibly  from  my  neck.  It  is 
true  I  kept  the  little  flag  nailed  under  the  ikono- 
stasion  before  which  I  said  my  prayers  every  night, 
and  when  I  felt  that  I  was  not  quite  as  loyal  to  it  as 
I  ought  to  be,  I  used  to  pray  to  the  Christian  gods  to 
help  me  to  remember  it.  I  say  "gods,"  because  to 
my  mind  God,  and  Christ,  and  St.  Nicholas,  and  St. 
George  and  the  rest  of  the  saints  were  much  the  same 
sort  of  a  group  as  the  old  Greek  gods,  now  in  seclu 
sion  on  Mount  Olympus. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DJIMLAH 

ON  the  day  of  Beiram  my  father  was  about  to  set 
out  for  a  call  on  a  Turkish  pasha. 

"Take  me  with  you,  father,"  I  begged,  thinking 
of  the  pleasure  of  being  with  him  more  than  of  going 
into  a  Turkish  home.  He  acceded  to  my  request, 
actuated  by  the  same  motive  as  mine. 

The  old  pasha  was  receiving  his  guests  in  his 
superb  garden,  and  I,  after  eating  all  the  candy  my 
father  would  permit  me  to,  and  becoming  tired  of 
their  talk,  which  happened  not  to  interest  me, 
slipped  away.  I  wandered  about  in  the  garden,  and 
presently  came  across  a  little  girl,  older  than  myself, 
yet  not  so  old  that  the  difference  formed  a  barrier  be 
tween  us.  It  is  true  that  we  came  very  near  fighting, 
at  first,  over  the  bravery  of  our  respective  races,  but 
we  ended,  thanks  to  the  courtesy  of  my  little  hostess, 
by  becoming  friends. 

Taking  my  hand  in  hers,  we  ran  all  the  way  to 
where  the  pasha  and  my  father  were  seated.  She 
interrupted  their  conversation  without  ceremony, 
and,  perching  herself  on  her  grandfather's  knees,  she 
demanded  that  he  should  borrow  me  for  her  from 
my  father. 

24 


I  stood  listening,  confident  that  my  father  would 
never,  never  consent  to  such  a  terrible  thing.  When 
my  father  consented,  —  reluctantly,  it  is  true;  yet 
he  did  consent,  —  cold  shivers  ran  up  and  down  my 
back,  and  my  eyelids  fell  heavily  over  my  eyes.  I 
felt  abandoned  —  abandoned  by  the  one  human 
being  for  whom  I  entertained  the  greatest]  confi 
dence/  Sheer  will  power  kept  me  from  throwing  my 
self  on  my  father's  knees  and  imploring  him  to  save 
me  from  the  Turks.  Had  I  not  been  bragging  to  the 
little  girl  but  a  few  minutes  before  that  I  was  a  Greek, 
and  consequently  an  extremely  brave  person,  I  am 
sure  I  should  have  broken  into  sobs.  As  it  was,  I 
let  myself  be  led  away  by  the  little  girl  without  even 
kissing  my  father  good-bye;  for  that  would  have 
broken  down  my  self-control.  That,  I  felt,  was  more 
than  even  Greek  blood  could  do.  I  resigned  myself 
to  my  dreadful  fate,  but  my  legs  felt  like  ripe  cu 
cumbers. 

Little  Djimlah  enveloped  me  in  a  long  caress. 
"You  are  my  very  own  baby,"  she  said.  "I  never 
had  one  before,  and  I  shall  love  you  vastly,  and  give 
you  all  I  have." 

Holding  my  hand  in  hers,  she  began  to  run  as  fast 
as  she  could,  pulling  me  along  down  the  long  avenue 
of  trees  leading  to  the  house.  At  the  door  she  did 
not  knock.  It  opened  as  by  magic  of  its  own  accord. 

25  , 


My  first  glimpse  of  the  interior  corresponded  ex 
actly  with  the  pictures  of  my  imagination;  for  in 
1885  Turkish  homes  still  preserved  all  their  Oriental 
customs.  The  hall  was  large,  dark,  and  gloomy;  and 
the  eunuch,  who  had  opened  the  door  by  pulling  his 
rope,  added  to  its  terrors.  And  since  that  was  a  great 
festival  day,  and  many  ladies  were  calling,  the  hall 
was  lined  with  these  sinister  black  men,  the  whites 
of  whose  eyes  glistened  in  the  darkness. 

Still  hand  in  hand,  Djimlah  and  I  mounted  a  flight 
of  dark,  carpetless  stairs  and  came  to  a  landing 
screened  by  very  much  the  same  kind  of  a  curtain 
as  those  that  hang  outside  the  doors  of  the  Catholic 
churches  on  the  Continent. 

"Open!"  Djimlah  cried,  and  silently  two  eunuchs 
drew  aside  the  curtains,  and  we  passed  to  another 
flight  of  bare  stairs,  now  full  of  light  and  sunshine. 
With  the  sun  a  peal  of  laughter  greeted  us,  and 
when  we  reached  the  upper  hall  I  felt  a  trifle  less 
afraid. 

Scrambling  about  on  rugs  were  what  seemed  to  me 
at  first  to  be  a  thousand  young  women,  very  much 
like  my  Kiamele,  dressed  in  as  many  colors  as  there 
were  heads,  barefooted  and  bare-armed.  They  were 
having  the  greatest  frolics,  and  laughing  like  a  pack 
of  children. 

"Hullo,  there!"  cried  Djimlah. 
26 


They  stopped  their  romping,  some  of  them  rising 
up  on  their  knees  to  see  us  the  better. 

"Why,  Djimlah  Hanoum,  what  have  you  there?" 

Djimlah  surveyed  me  with  eyes  full  of  that  humor 
which  is  so  strong  a  characteristic  of  the  Turkish 
people,  and  replied  seriously:  "It  looks  to  me  like 
a  Christian  child." 

"And  where  did  you  find  it?"  they  cried. 

"I  borrowed  it  from  the  effendi,  her  father,  who 
is  out  in  the  garden  talking  to  grandfather.  She  will 
be  here  a  long,  long  time,  as  my  own  baby." 

"Really?"  They  became  quite  excited  about  this. 

"Yes.  And  she  can  understand  us,  and  talk  the 
way  we  do,"  Djimlah  announced  proudly,  as  if  she 
had  imparted  to  me  a  knowledge  of  her  language  in 
the  short  time  she  had  been  holding  my  hand. 

"Os-geldi!  os-geldil"  then  they  cried  to  me  in  wel 
come. 

"Now,  let's  go  to  grandmother,"  said  Djimlah. 

This  bevy  of  women  were  the  slaves  of  the  house 
and  the  slaves  of  the  ladies  who  were  with  the  great 
lady  within.  We  passed  through  several  rooms,  filled 
with  the  outdoor  garments  of  the  visiting  ladies,  and 
then  came  into  the  divan-khane,  or  principal  recep 
tion-room,  where  the  hostess  was  entertaining  her 
guests. 

Djimlah,  placing  both  her  little  hands  on  the  floor, 

27 


salaamed,  and  then  walked  up  to  her  grandmother, 
who,  magnificently  attired  in  her  Orientalism,  sat 
cross-legged  on  a  hard  sofa,  which  ran  around  three 
sides  of  the  room. 

"Here,  grandmother,  here  is  a  Christian  child. 
The  effendi,  her  father,  is  out  with  grandfather,  and 
he  has  lent  her  to  me. " 

I  stood  still,  quite  uncertain  what  was  the  proper 
thing  for  me  to  do.  I  had  never  before  come  so  near 
to  a  Turkish  lady ;  and  this  one,  with  her  deeply  dyed 
finger-nails,  and  her  indoor  veils,  and  her  hundreds 
of  diamonds,  put  to  flight  all  my  previous  education 
in  decorum.  I  merely  stared. 

"Welcome,  little  hanoum,"  she  said,  after  she, 
too,  had  stared  at  me.  "We  shall  do  our  best  to 
make  your  stay  among  us  seem  like  a  happy  minute. " 

I  picked  up  my  little  skirts  and  made  her  a  Eu 
ropean  curtsy.  She  was  childishly  delighted  with 
it,  and  I  was  made  to  repeat  it  before  every  lady  in 
the  room,  who  sat  in  her  magnificence,  cross-legged 
on  the  divan. 

There  were  many,  and  by  the  time  I  finished  my 
curtsies,  and  told  my  name  and  my  age,  and  how 
I  had  learned  Turkish,  and  where  I  lived,  I  felt  quite 
at  home;  and  when  the  old  lady  made  us  sit  by  her, 
and  gave  us  such  quantities  of  candy  as  I  had  never 
been  permitted  to  eat  in  an  entire  year,  I  did  not 
28 


think  once  of  the  little  flag  that  my  sons  were  to 
carry. 

They  talked  before  us  as  if  we  were  not  there,  and 
told  a  lot  of  funny  stories  at  which  we  were  permitted 
to  join  in  the  laugh. 

The  audience  over,  the  ladies  rose  and  salaamed. 
Djimlah  and  I  rose,  too,  and  as  Djimlah  now  kissed 
the  hems  of  the  ladies'  dresses,  so  did  I;  and  I  was 
pleased  to  do  so,  for  the  ladies  were  reeking  with 
strong  perfumes,  a  thing  I  had  been  taught  to  con 
sider  ill-bred,  but  which  I  secretly  thought  lovely. 
We  escorted  the  guests  out  to  the  anterooms,  where 
their  attendants  wrapped  them  in  their  black  wraps 
and  heavy  white  gauze  headgears,  and  there  we  bade 
them  good-bye. 

Some  of  them  took  me  in  their  arms  and  kissed 
me,  and  their  perfume  stayed  with  me  even  in  bed 
that  night. 


CHAPTER  V 

WE  AND   THEY 

IT  was  a  patriarchal  home,  this  first  harem  into 
which  I  entered.  It  consisted  of  the  old  hanoum, 
who  was  the  first  wife,  and  head  of  the  women's  part 
of  the  household,  six  other  wives,  whom  she  called 
her  sisters,  several  married  daughters,  the  wives  of 
some  of  the  sons,  and  two  married  granddaughters. 
Among  them  they  were  the  mothers  of  numerous 
babies  —  indeed,  there  were  babies  all  over  the 
house;  and  since  each  lady  had  several  slaves  there 
must  have  been  at  least  a  hundred  women  and  chil 
dren. 

Djimlah  happened  to  be  the  only  child  of  her  age, 
and  all  were  sorry  for  her,  and  said  so  constantly  and 
did  their  best  to  amuse  her. 

;  There  was  little  furniture  in  the  house,  just  rugs 
and  hard  sofas,  and  small  tables  upon  which  were 
always  sorbets  or  sweets,  and  cushions  of  all  colors 
piled  up  on  the  rugs,  where  babies  or  grown-ups  were 
always  lying  slumbering.  Various  small  musical  in 
struments  were  also  among  the  cushions,  and  at  any 
time  some  person  would  pick  one  of  these  up  to  play 
and  sing,  so  that  most  of  the  time,  on  the  floor,  there 
were  both  people  slumbering,  and  people  playing  and 
30 


singing.  And  since  the  long,  curtainless  windows 
were  latticed,  and  the  upper  part  entirely  hidden  by 
creeping  vines,  growing  from  pots,  the  whole  place 
seemed  to  me  like  a  play-box,  transformed  into  a 
fairy  house,  from  which  discipline,  like  a  wicked  fairy, 
was  banished. 

All  the  cooking  was  done  in  the  men's  part  of  the 
house,  and  brought  in  by  eunuchs.  At  meal-times 
we  sat  around  small,  low  tables,  on  cushions,  and  ate 
most  of  the  things  with  our  fingers,  except  rice  and 
soup,  which  we  ate  with  pretty  wooden  spoons. 

The  amount  they  permitted  me  to  eat  was  incredi 
ble.  Even  to  this  day  I  wonder  what  prevented  me 
from  becoming  ill. 

Djimlah  and  I  practically  owned  the  house.  We 
slid  on  the  banisters,  we  climbed  on  the  backs  of  the 
slaves,  who,  at  any  time,  were  ready  to  play  horse 
with  us,  and  we  ate  candy  whenever  and  in  whatever 
quantities  we  pleased. 

No  one  said  "No"  to  us,  whatever  we  did,  and  the 
old  hanoum  let  us  ruffle  her  beautiful  clothes  and 
disturb  her  even  when  she  was  asleep.  We  slept  on 
a  little  bed  made  up  at  the  foot  of  hers,  in  her  own 
room,  and  it  was  she  who  said  our  prayer,  which  we 
repeated,  and  then  kissed  us  good  night. 

The  day  had  passed  so  rapidly,  and  had  been  so 
crowded  with  events  and  candy,  that  I  had  had  no 


time  to  think.  Once  in  bed,  after  Djimlah  put  her 
arms  around  me  and  kissed  me  and  then  sweetly  fell 
asleep,  I  had  plenty  of  time  to  review  the  day.  It 
seemed  preposterous  that  I,  my  uncle's  grand-niece, 
should  be  here  in  a  Turkish  household,  and  in  the 
same  bed  with  a  Turkish  little  girl  —  a  little  girl  I 
liked  and  should  hate  to  kill.  Yet  my  uncle's  teach 
ings  were  strongly  with  me,  and  his  dark  fiery  eyes 
seemed  to  pierce  my  heart.  I  tried  to  focus  my  mind 
on  the  bad  side  of  this  household.  There  was  the 
fact  of  the  several  wives,  and  if  it  was  bad  for  Arif 
Bey  to  have  two  wives,  it  must  be  terribly  bad  to 
have  seven,  as  had  Djimlah's  grandfather,  who  did 
not  even  have  the  excuse,  to  my  thinking,  of  being 
young,  handsome,  and  Olympian.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  old  hanoum  liked  those  other  wives,  and 
called  them  "sister,"  and  Djimlah  spoke  of  them 
lovingly.  Impelled  by  my  uncle's  eyes  I  tried  to 
dislike  the  Turks.  I  felt  disloyal  to  him,  whom  I 
could  feel  very  close  that  night;  but  when  I  fell 
asleep  at  last,  my  rest  was  not  troubled,  and  on 
awaking  again,  Djimlah  was  leaning  over  me,  cooing 
and  laughing,  and  I  began  to  laugh,  too. 

The  tears  which  I  had  had  the  courage  not  to  shed 

when  my  father  said  that  I  might  stay  with  Djimlah, 

flowed  copiously  when  the  time  came  to  leave  her. 

I  cried  hard  and  loud,  and  so  did  Djimlah,  and  be- 

32 


cause  we  two  cried,  some  of  the  slaves  joined  in,  and 
then  the  old  hanoum  said :  - 

"Now,  young  hanoum,  that  you  have  come  once, 
you  will  like  to  come  again,  and  prove  to  us  that  we 
have  made  your  stay  happy. " 

"I'm  ready  to  come  this  minute,"  I  sobbed. 

At  this  she  laughed,  and  we  began  to  laugh,  too; 
and  thus  I  bade  them  good-bye. 

The  first  words  I  said  on  reaching  my  own  home 
were  that  the  Turks  were  the  nicest  people  in  the 
world.  My  father  was  amused,  but  my  mother  was 
horrified,  and  had  she  had  her  way  I  believe  my  first 
would  have  been  my  only  visit.  As  it  was,  eight  days 
later  I  was  again  with  Djimlah;  and  thus  it  came 
about  that  from  that  early  age  I  became  a  constant 
visitor  not  only  to  Djimlah's  home,  but  also  to  that 
of  other  little  girls  whom  I  met  through  her,  and 
otherwise. 

As  I  grew  older  the  vast  contrast  between  my  race 
and  theirs  became  more  and  more  clear  to  me;  and 
I  had  the  distinct  feeling  of  partaking  of  two  worlds, 
mine  and  theirs. 

In  my  home  there  were  duties  for  me  from  my 
babyhood,  duties  which  had  rigidly  to  be  performed; 
and  things  to  be  learned,  remembered,  and  to  be 
guided  by.  The  words  "duty"  and  "obligation" 
played  a  great  role  in  my  Greek  home,  and  these  two 

33 


words,  so  stern,  so  irreconcilable  with  pleasure,  were 
absent  from  the  Turkish  homes. 

For  me  there  was  a  tremendous  Greek  history  to 
be  learned  and  understood ;  and  the  more  one  studied 
it,  the  more  one  had  to  suffer  because  of  the  present; 
for  in  my  home  we  lived  with  the  past,  we  talked  of 
the  past,  and  of  the  obligations  which  the  past  im 
posed  upon  our  present  and  future. 

In  the  Turkish  homes  there  was  no  history  to  be 
learned.  All  they  seemed  to  know  was  that  they  were 
a  great  conquering  race,  that  they  had  come  from 
Asia  and  had  conquered  all  Europe,  because  they 
were  brave  and  the  Europeans  were  cowards.  There 
was  no  past  or  future  in  their  lives.  Everything  was 
ephemeral,  resting  on  the  pleasure  of  the  day,  or, 
better  yet,  on  the  pleasure  of  the  moment;  uncon 
scious  of  the  morrow,  and  indifferent  to  the  moment 
after  the  present. 

In  entering  a  Turkish  home,  especially  as  I  grew 
older,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  leaving  my  own  life  outside. 
They  were  different  from  us,  these  women,  these 
children  of  the  Turks.  They  were  so  different,  in 
deed,  that  I  rarely  spoke  to  them  of  the  things  I  felt 
or  thought  about  at  home.  I  came  to  them  ready  to 
enjoy  them,  and  to  enjoy  life  with  them;  and  yet, 
as  the  years  went  by,  deep  down  in  my  heart  I  felt 
glad  to  be  a  Greek  child,  even  though  I  belonged  to 
34 


the  conquered  race;  and  I  began  to  return  to  my 
home  with  greater  satisfaction  than  I  had  at  first,  and 
to  put  into  my  studies  a  fervor  and  a  willingness 
which  might  have  been  less  had  I  not  been  a  visitor 
to  these  Turkish  households. 

Yet  curiously,  too,  as  I  grew  older,  I  liked  the 
Turks  more  and  more,  though  in  my  liking  there  was 
a  certain  amount  of  protective  feeling,  such  as  one 
might  feel  for  wayward  children,  rather  than  for 
equals. 

I  learned  to  see  what  was  noble,  charming,  and 
poetical  in  their  lives;  but  I  also  became  conscious 
that,  in  spite  of  the  faults  of  my  race,  in  spite  of  the 
limitations  of  our  religion,  our  civilization  was  better 
than  theirs,  because  it  contained  such  words  as 
discipline,  duty,  and  obligation.  And  dimly  I  felt 
that  we  were  a  race  that  had  come  to  the  world  to 
stay  and  to  help,  while  theirs  was  perhaps  some  day 
to  vanish  utterly. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AUNT   KALLIROE 

THERE  is  no  use  pretending  that  there  has  ever 
existed  the  least  sense  of  fraternity  between  the 
Greeks  and  the  Turks.  They  had  their  quarters  and 
we  had  ours.  They  brought  their  customs  and  tradi 
tions  from  the  East,  and  we  held  fast  to  our  own.  The 
two  races  had  nothing  to  give  each  other.  They 
ignored  us  totally,  and  we  only  remembered  them  to 
hate  them  and  to  make  ready  some  day  to  throw  off 
their  dominion. 

I  have  never  heard  a  good  word  for  the  Turks  from 
such  of  my  people  as  have  not  crossed  their  thresh 
olds.  It  is  almost  unbelievable  that  for  upward  of 
four  hundred  years  we  should  have  lived  side  by  side, 
ignorant  of  each  other's  history,  and  positively  re 
fusing  to  learn  of  each  other's  good  qualities.  With 
entire  sincerity  the  Greeks  daily  relate  to  each  other 
awful  deeds  of  the  Turks  —  deeds  which  are  mere 
rumor  and  hearsay,  and  contain  only  a  grain  of  truth, 
or  none  at  all. 

Each  side  did  its  best  to  keep  the  other  as  far  away 

as  possible.  They  had  their  resorts,  and  we  had  ours. 

They  had  their  teke,  and  we  had  our  schools;  they 

had  their  mosques  and  we  had  our  churches;  they 

36 


had  their  Punch-and-Judy  shows  and  we  had  our 
theaters ;  they  had  their  music,  and  we  had  our  own ; 
they  had  their  language,  and  we  clung  jealously  to 
ours.  Our  own  differences  we  did  not  bring  before 
the  Turkish  law,  but  before  our  own  Church.  Neither 
in  sorrow  nor  in  pleasure  did  we  mingle.  Turkey  is 
the  only  country  in  the  world  where  one  may  travel 
for  months  without  using  the  language  of  the  coun 
try,  with  such  great  tenacity  do  the  conquered  races 
cling  to  their  own.  Indeed,  in  order  to  live  com 
fortably  in  Constantinople,  one  must  know  Greek, 
not  Turkish. 

After  I  had  played  with  Turkish  girls  for  two  years, 
had  been  in  and  out  of  their  homes  as  a  friend,  and 
liked  them,  one  morning  my  Great-Aunt  Kalliroe 
came  to  our  house  in  a  great  state  of  excitement  and 
worry. 

"Go  fetch  your  father,  dear,"  she  cried  to  me, 
"and  tell  him  that  it  is  of  the  utmost  importance 
—  of  the  utmost  national  importance. " 

Great-Aunt  Kalliroe  was  an  old  lady,  and  the  last 
of  her  type  I  remember.  She  was  of  an  old  Phanariot 
family,  and  to  her  the  traditions  of  Phanar  —  the 
Greek  portion  of  Constantinople  —  were  as  im 
portant  as  her  religious  duties.  She  always  dressed 
in  the  old  fashion  of  Phanar,  wearing  a  black  lace, 
turban-like,  on  her  head,  a  dress  in  one  piece,  with 

37 


ample  skirts,  and  a  shawl  which  she  let  hang  grace 
fully  over  her  shoulders.  She  was  tall  and  imposing, 
with  the  sharp  features  of  the  Greeks  of  Phanar, 
which  perhaps  were  sharpened  during  their  first  two 
hundred  years  under  Turkish  rule.  Even  in  her  old 
age  her  eyes  were  as  piercing  and  clear  as  a  hawk's. 
She  carried  a  cane,  and  wore  silk  mittens  made  by 
hand;  and  whenever  she  met  a  Turk  in  the  street 
she  muttered  exorcising  words,  as  if  he  were  an  evil 
spirit. 

Upon  her  marriage  she  had  at  first  gone  to  live 
in  another  community,  where  the  Greek  traditions 
were  not  so  rigidly  adhered  to.  At  once  she  decided 
that  her  marriage  was  providential,  and  that  God 
had  meant  her  to  go  to  this  place  to  revive  the  Greek 
spirit.  She  undertook  her  task  with  a  fervor  at  once 
patriotic  and  religious;  and  she  succeeded  in  her 
mission,  for  she  made  these  wayward  sheep  return 
rigorously  to  the  fold. 

"Go,  child!"  she  now  admonished  me  impatiently. 
"Don't  stand  there  and  stare  at  me  —  go  fetch  your 
father." 

I  knew  my  father  did  not  like  to  be  disturbed  in 
the  morning,  but  I  knew  also  that  there  was  not  a 
human  being  who  did  not  obey  Great-Aunt  Kalliroe ; 
so  I  went  and  fetched  my  father. 

"Nephew!"  she  cried,  without  any  greeting,  as 
38 


soon  as  she  saw  him,  "I  will  not  countenance  it  - 
I  will  not  tolerate  it!   He  must  be  made  to  under 
stand  the  impossibility  of  his  desire." 

My  father  sat  down  by  her,  took  her  silk-mittened 
hand,  and  kissed  the'fingers. 

"Now  just  tell  me  who  is  'he.'" 

Aunt  Kalliroe  looked  at  my  father  with  disgusted 
surprise. 

"Nephew,  are  you  living  at  the  North  Pole,  and 
not  in  Turkey?  —  Baky  Pasha,  of  course. " 

She  flung  the  name  as  if  it  were  a  bomb,  and  waited 
for  it  to  explode.   My  father  took  the  matter  calmly. 

"What  has  he  done?"  he  inquired. 

"Nephew,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?    Don't 
you  know?" 

My  father  shook  his  head.   "Tell  me,"  he  begged. 

"He  is  proposing  to  buy  the  Spathary  homestead! 
The  -  -  Spathary  —  homestead !  Why  the  man 
didn't  leave  it  to  the  Church  I  can't  understand; 
but  I  suppose  the  stroke  prevented  him  from  putting 
his  affairs  in  order.  Well,  his  only  heirs  live  in 
Roumania,  and  they  want  to  sell  the  house,  not  to 
rent  it,  and  what  is  more  they  are  asking  a  ridiculous 
price.  The  house  has  been  vacant  for  two  years  — 
and  now  Baky  Pasha,  the  Asiatic  brute  and  murderer, 
proposes  to  buy  it  —  to  buy  a  Christian  home,  which 
contains  a  niche  for  our  saints  in  every  bedchamber 

39 


—  a  home  which  has  been  blessed  by  our  priests,  and 
in  which  many  a  Christian  child  has  been  baptized!" 

She  threw  up  her  hands  in  despair. 

"Christian  God,  are  you  going  to  try  your  children 
much  more?  You  have  sent  these  Asiatic  hordes  to 
come  and  conquer  us;  you  have  allowed  your  great 
church  to  be  polluted  by  their  profane  creed;  and 
now  are  you  going  to  try  your  children  further  by 
permitting  these  beasts  to  buy  Christian  homes  to 
lead  their  improper  lives  in?" 

My  father  waited  till  her  outburst  came  to  an  end, 
then  said  gently:  "You  know,  Aunt  Kalliroe",  Baky 
is  a  very  nice  fellow,  and  what  is  more  he  has  never 
murdered  anybody,  or  is  likely  to. " 

My  great-aunt  stared  at  my  father;  then  asked 
stiffly:  "And  what  is  his  nationality,  please?" 

"He  is  a  Turk,  of  course  - 

"A  Turk  —  and  not  a  murderer?"  She  lifted  her 
eyes  to  the  ceiling.  "Christian  God,  what  are  we 
coming  to?  Is  1453  so  ^ar  away  that  your  children 
have  forgotten  it?  A  Turk  —  and  not  a  murderer! 
But  I  am  not  here  to  discuss  the  Turks  with  you, 
nephew ;  for  are  you  not  a  Turkish  official,  do  you  not 
consort  daily  with  these  barbarians,  and  do  they  not 
even  say  that  you  permit  your  innocent  babe  to 
sleep  under  the  roof  where  Turks  keep  their  women? 
Christian  God,  give  grace  to  your  children." 
40 


She  joined  her  hands,  and  her  lips  moved  in  silent 
prayer. 

"Just  tell  me  what  I  can  do  for  you,"  my  father 
begged. 

"You  can  speak  for  me  to  that  Turk,  and  tell  him 
that  the  Spathary  homestead  is  Greek,  and  that  it  is 
in  the  midst  of  a  Greek  community,  where  he  is  not 
wanted.  If  he  offers  so  much  money  that  it  will  be 
sold  to  him,  well,  it  shall  be  burned  to  the  ground  be 
fore  he  moves  into  it,  that  is  all. " 

My  father  opened  his  cigarette  case,  and  offered  her 
a  cigarette;  for  all  the  women  of  her  generation  smoked. 

She  selected  one,  and  examined  it  closely.  "I  am 
gratified  at  least  to  see  that  you  smoke  what  is  made 
by  your  countrymen,  and  not  Turkish  cigarettes." 

My  father  laughed.  "Why,  auntie,  there  is  not 
a  Turkish  cigarette-maker  in  all  Turkey.  All  the 
Turkish  cigarettes  are  made  by  Greeks." 

Aunt  Kalliroe  took  a  puff  or  two;  then,  for  once 
on  the  defensive,  she  observed:  "All  decent  things 
are  made  by  Greeks  —  is  n't  that  so?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"You  ought  not  to  'suppose  so,'"  she  cried,  again 
on  the  offensive;  "you  ought  to  be  certain.  Christian 
God,  what  are  we  coming  to!  Is  this  the  patriotism 
to  be  expected  of  the  men  who  must  try  to  free  your 
great  Church  from  the  Mussulman  profanation?"  ; 


"Tell  me,  how  do  you  propose  to  settle  the  Spat- 
hary  matter?"  my  father  asked,  reverting  to  the 
less  dangerous  topic.  "If  Baky  shouldn't  buy  it, 
how  would  you  keep  off  other  Turks  who  may  wish 
to  buy?  Your  community  is  an  old-fashioned  one. 
The  younger  generation  of  Greeks  is  moving  away 
from  it;  and  only  rich  Turks  will  buy  the  big  old 
Greek  homesteads. " 

"I  propose  to  buy  it  myself, "  she  thundered,  "and 
move  into  it,  and  sell  my  own  house  to  the  Bishop 
of  Heraclea,  who  wants  it. " 

"How  much  does  he  offer  for  your  house?" 

"Four  thousand  pounds." 

"And  what  do  the  Spathary  heirs  ask?" 

"Those  Roumanian  Greeks  have  no  more  idea  of 
value  than  they  have  of  patriotism  —  they  are  ask 
ing  five  thousand,  and  what  is  more  I  shall  have  to 
pay  it." 

"Then  you  will  sell  the  home  of  your  husband's 
forefathers,  and  pay  a  thousand  pounds  more  for  an 
inferior  one?" 

She  banged  her  stick  on  the  floor  in  exasperation. 
"I  am  not  driving  a  money  bargain:  I  am  keeping 
a  Turk  from  coming  among  us.  Great  Christian  God, 
am  I  to  permit  an  infidel  to  pass  daily  by  my  door, 
and  to  walk  the  street  where  Christian  virgins 
dwell?" 
42 


"Why  does  n't  the  bishop  buy  the  Spathary  home 
stead?"  my  father  suggested. 

"It  isn't  big  enough.  It  hasn't  enough  ground. 
And  it  's  farther  from  the  landing.  Now  are  you 
going  to  carry  my  message  to  that  brutal  Turk?" 

"Yes,  certainly.  And  I  know  that  he  will  not  be 
willing  to  buy  where  he  is  not  wanted.  But  I  am 
sorry  that  you  are  going  to  lose  your  own  home,  and 
pay  a  thousand  pounds  over. " 

"Need  n't  worry!  I  have  enough  to  live  on,  and, 
as  you  know,  all  my  money  goes  to  the  Educational 
Fund,  so  that  I  might  just  as  well  use  a  thousand 
pounds  now  to  keep  a  Turk  away  from  Christians." 

The  next  time  we  visited  Aunt  Kalliroe  she  was 
installed  in  the  Spathary  homestead.  Just  within 
the  front  door  stood  a  small  table,  covered  with  a 
white  linen  tablecloth,  such  as  an  orthodox  Greek 
woman  spun  herself  for  the  purpose  of  putting  on 
the  table  where  the  ikons  were  laid  —  a  tablecloth 
always  washed  by  the  mistress  herself  in  a  basin 
kept  apart  from  the  other  dishes.  On  the  table  lay  a 
Greek  ikon,  a  brass  candlestick  holding  three  can 
dles,  all  burning,  and  a  brass  incense-burner,  from 
which  a  column  of  blue  smoke  was  rising,  filling  the 
house  with  the  odor  of  incense. 

"Why,  it  isn't  Easter  and  it  isn't  Christmas," 

43 


I  cried.  "It  is  n't  even  a  great  saint's  day.  Why  are 
you  burning  the  candles  and  the  incense,  great- 
aunt?" 

"They  have  been  burning  since  I  moved  into  this 
house,  and  they  shall  burn  for  thrice  forty  days,  to 
cleanse  it  from  Turkish  pollution." 

"But  since  Baky  Pasha  never  bought  it,  and  never 
lived  in  it  —  " 

"No,  but  a  Turk  has  coveted  it,  and  that  is  enough 
to  pollute  a  Christian  home." 

This  incident  is  one  of  many  which  illustrate  the 
feeling  which  existed  in  the  hearts  of  the  orthodox 
Greeks  for  the  people  who  had  conquered  them  and 
had  brought  to  the  very  capital  of  their  former  empire 
their  own  religion  and  customs.  We  disliked  them 
and  feared  them;  and  our  fear  partook  both  of  the 
real  and  of  the  unreal,  because  we  ascribed  to  them 
not  only  the  deeds  which  they  had  done,  but  also  a 
great  many  which  they  were  not  only  incapable  of 
doing,  but  which  had  not  even  entered  their  minds 
to  do. 

I  wonder  now  what  would  have  been  the  outcome 
had  the  Greeks  and  the  Turks  mingled  more  to 
gether;  had  they  come  to  know  each  other  and  to 
recognize  each  other's  good  qualities,  and  had  they 
been  able  to  profit  by  the  good  which  is  in  each  na 
tion;  had  the  Turks,  for  example,  borrowed  from  the 
44 


light  of  Greek  civilization  and  culture;  and  had 
the  Greeks  profited  by  the  calm,  contemplative  spirit 
which  is  the  keynote  of  the  Turkish  character,  when 
not  in  war.  I  wonder  always  what  would  have  been 
the  outcome,  and  perhaps  that  is  one  more  reason 
why  I  try  to  show  what  is  best  in  the  Turks  —  to 
save  the  gold  from  the  dross,  and  to  disentangle 
from  the  bad  what  was  divine  and  immortal  in  them. 
We  Greeks  have  never  been  able  to  learn  from 
them  and  to  give  something  in  exchange;  but  why 
let  it  be  lost  to  the  whole  world?  And  since  we  call 
ourselves  Christians,  why  should  we  not  be  able  to 
say  —  when  the  sick  shall  be  dead  —  even  as  Christ 
said  of  the  dead  dog:  " Yes,  he  is  a  dead  dog  —  but 
his  teeth  are  beautiful. " 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  THE  HOLLOW   OF  ALLAH'S   HAND 

MY  visits  to  Djimlah  continued,  and  her  daring 
spirit  was  a  continual  delight  to  me.  I  had  never 
seen  her  afraid  of  anything,  and  she  did  pretty  much 
as  she  chose.  One  day  when  I  was  visiting  her,  a 
tremendous  thunderstorm  broke  out,  and  I  said  to 
her:  — 

"Oh,  Djimlah,  let  us  go  out  in  your  grounds  and 
watch  the  storm.  They  never  let  me  do  that  at  home, 
and  I  do  so  want  to  find  its  roots. " 

She  did  not  accept  the  proposal  with  alacrity. 
"It  will  rain  hard  in  a  minute,"  she  objected,  "and 
we  shall  get  wet.  I  hate  to  look  like  a  rat  —  and  all 
the  curl  will  come  out  of  my  hair. " 

"I  believe  you  are  afraid,  like  the  other  women," 
I  mocked  her.  "Maybe  if  you  had  a  European  bed 
in  your  home  you  would  go  and  hide  under  it." 

She  rose  majestically.  "Come,  we  will  go  and  see 
whether  I  am  afraid. " 

We  went  out,  bent  on  rinding  the  beginning  of  the 
storm.  I  always  thought  that  a  storm  must  have 
a  beginning;  and  from  the  windows  of  my  nursery, 
where  I  watched  the  storms,  it  looked  as  if  it  were 
just  around  the  corner.  In  vain,  however,  on  that 
46 


day  did  we  wander  around  many  corners  on  Djim- 
lah's  grounds:  we  could  find  no  beginning. 

The  storm  grew  fiercer  and  fiercer.  The  whole  sky 
was  dark,  lead-colored,  and  black  clouds  rushed 
along  as  if  a  tremendous  force  were  pushing  them 
from  behind.  The  lightning,  like  a  vicious  snake, 
was  zigzagging  over  the  sky.  Then  there  came  a 
bang !  and  a  crash  of  thunder.  By  that  time  we  were 
far  from  the  house,  and  on  the  cliffs.  Djimlah  put 
her  arm  within  mine. 

"I  am  possessed  with  fear, "  she  gasped;  "for  Allah 
is  wrathful." 

Her  tone  was  full  of  awe,  and  it  subdued  me.  "Let 
us  go  back,"  I  said. 

"No,  it  will  overtake  us,  and  crush  us,"  Djimlah 
answered.  "I  don't  want  to  die  —  not  just  yet. 
We  must  hide  somewhere. " 

At  this  time  I  was  being  taught  my  Bible,  and  felt 
that  I  knew  a  great  deal  about  religious  subjects. 

"We  can't  hide  from  God, "  I  explained.  "He  sees 
us  everywhere  —  even  in  the  darkest  corner  of  a  dark 
closet." 

"I  don't  want  to  hide  from  God,"  Djimlah  cor 
rected.  "I  want  to  hide  from  the  thunder.  Come! 
I  know  where  we  can  go  —  to  the  Hollow  of  Allah's 
Hand." 

Hand  in  hand  we  ran  as  fast  as  we  could  against 

47 


the  hard,  beating  rain,  the  fierce  wind  blowing  against 
us,  bending  even  big  trees,  and  mercilessly  breaking 
off  their  branches.  With  the  agility  of  children  we 
managed  to  reach  a  high  cliff  partly  concealed  by 
pines.  It  resembled  a  gigantic  hand,  rising  up,  the 
fingers  curving  over  and  forming  a  protected  hollow. 
Into  this  we  crept  and  sat  down,  high  above  the  Sea 
of  Marmora,  with  miles  and  miles  of  horizon  in  front 
of  us. 

In  our  little  shelter  the  rain  could  not  get  at  us, 
but  we  were  already  wet,  and  our  clothes  clung  to 
us  uncomfortably. 

"Let  us  take  our  coats  off,"  suggested  Djimlah, 
"for  the  under  layer  must  be  less  wet  than  the  upper 
one.  And  also  let  us  take  off  our  shoes  and  stockings. 
We  shall  be  more  comfortable  without  them. " 

We  divested  ourselves  of  some  of  our  clothing,  and 
as  the  hollow  where  we  sat  had  sand,  we  stretched 
our  coats  in  front  of  us  to  dry,  curled  our  feet  under 
us,  and  snuggled  very  close  to  each  other. 

The  storm  was  still  raging,  but  we  now  looked 
upon  it  with  the  renewed  interest  and  pleasure  de 
rived  from  our  safety. 

"We  didn't  find  its  roots,  after  all,"  Djimlah 
observed.    "I  believe  it  begins  at  the  feet  of  Allah 
and  ends  there,  and  since  we  are  sitting  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand,  it  can't  hurt  us. " 
48 


It  struck  me  as  curious  that  she  should  be  talking 
of  God  so  familiarly.  In  my  ignorance  of  their  relig 
ious  side,  I  considered  the  Turks  as  infidels  and  with 
out  religion. 

"I  didn't  know  that  God  had  any  hands,"  I 
remarked.  "I  thought  He  was  only  an  eye;  at  least, 
that  is  the  way  He  is  painted  on  the  ceiling  of  our 
church." 

Djimlah  shook  her  head.  "How  can  He  be  only 
an  eye?  Have  you  ever  seen  a  person  being  only  an 
eye?" 

"He  isn't  a  person,"  I  retorted.  "He  is  God, 
which  is  very  different  from  being  a  person."  And 
yet,  as  I  spoke  the  words,  something  I  had  just 
learned  popped  into  my  head,  that  man  was  created 
in  the  image  of  God.  Magnanimously  I  mentioned 
this  to  Djimlah. 

"I  always  knew  that,"  she  agreed,  "and  I  know 
whom  He  looks  like,  too.  He  looks  like  grandfather 
at  his  best." 

"Your  grandfather  is  old,"  I  protested.  "God 
isn't  an  old  man." 

Djimlah  pondered  this.  "Well,  He  has  lived  ever 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world  —  and  grandfather 
is  only  sixty."  She  looked  at  me,  puzzled.  "That's 
funny.  I  never  thought  much  about  his  age. " 

"Yes,"  I  put  in,  more  perplexed  still,  "and  his 

49 


son,  if  he  had  lived,  would  have  been  almost  nineteen 
hundred  years  old. " 

She  turned  abruptly,  and  her  face  in  the  little 
hollow  was  very  near  mine. 

"What  son?"  she  inquired  with  interest. 

"Jesus  Christ,  our  Lord,"  I  answered. 

"Your  prophet?  Why,  he  wasn't  his  son.  Allah 
never  married. " 

And  again  the  words  flashed  into  my  mind  that 
there  was  neither  giving  nor  taking  in  marriage  in 
heaven.  Yet  I  stood  by  my  orthodoxy. 

"Christ  is  the  son  of  God,"  I  maintained. 

Djimlah,  too,  stood  by  her  belief.  "Allah  had  no 
children  of  the  flesh.  Christ  was  only  a  prophet  — 
and  he  was  second  to  Mohammed. " 

A  brilliant  idea  came  to  me.  "  You  know,  Djim 
lah,"  I  explained,  "I  am  not  talking  of  Allah,  I  am 
talking  of  God. " 

"They  are  all  the  same,"  she  asserted.  "There  is 
but  one  heaven  and  one  earth  and  one  sun  and  one 
moon.  Therefore,  there  is  but  one  God,  and  that  is 
Allah,  and  we  are  his  children. " 

I  was  staggered  by  her  confident  tone.  Djimlah 
with  her  words  had  made  of  me  a  Mohammedan  and 
an  infidel  —  something  religiously  unclean  and  un 
speakable.  And  what  is  more,  she  was  unconscious 
of  the  enormity  of  her  speech:  she  was  excitedly 
5° 


watching  the  lightning,  now  making  all  sorts  of 
arabesques  on  the  sky. 

"  Watch,  darling,  watch ! "  she  cried.  "  I  know  now 
what  the  storm  is.  It  is  fireworks,  Allah's  fireworks! " 

"Fireworks  —  foolishness!"  I  exclaimed  peevishly; 
for  I  was  sorely  hurt  at  the  idea  of  her  being  on  equal 
terms  with  me  before  God.  "God  is  not  frivolous 
—  He  does  not  want  any  fireworks.  He  is  vastly 
busy  watching  the  world,  and  guiding  the  destinies 
of  the  human  race. " 

"Why  should  He  watch  and  guide?"  Djimlah 
said  proudly.  "He  knows  everything  from  the  be 
ginning;  for  He  writes  it  on  the  foreheads  of  people. 
My  destiny  is  written  here, "  -  she  pointed  to  her 
forehead;  "and  yours  is  written  there."  She  tapped 
my  forehead. 

I  hated  her,  and  crossly  pushed  her  finger  from 
my  forehead. 

"He  does  n't,"  I  cried,  "for  He  leaves  us  free  to 
choose  whether  we  shall  be  brave  or  cowardly, 
whether  we  shall  do  good  or  evil." 

She  laughed  derisively.  "A  nice  kind  of  a  father 
you  would  make  of  Him  —  taking  no  more  care  of 
us  than  that.  But  do  stop  arguing  and  watch  the 
storm.  Is  n't  it  glorious?" 

Indeed,  the  lightning  over  the  Asiatic  side  of 
Turkey  was  wonderful.  The  storm  had  worked  its 


way  over  there,  and  the  rain  had  followed,  leaving 
our  side  of  the  coast  clear.  Right  above  us  a  yellow 
ish  cloud  tore  open,  and  disclosed  the  sun.  Djimlah 
greeted  him  with  delight.  She  extended  her  little 
arms  up  toward  him,  crying:  - 

"Come  out,  Sun  Effendi,  come  out!  You  are  so 
golden  and  warm,  and  I  am  so  cold. "  She  shook  her 
little  body  and  rose,  jumping  up  and  down  to  get 
warm. 

As  if  to  oblige  her,  the  sun's  rays  grew  stronger  and 
stronger,  and  we  began  to  feel  better  under  their 
warmth.  We  could  hear  the  storm  growling,  miles 
away  now,  and  see  only  bits  of  lightning. 

"It's  working  its  way  back  to  Allah,"  said  Djim 
lah,  "so  let's  go  home,  and  get  dry  clothes  and  some 
thing  to  eat.  But  I  am  glad  we  came  out,  for  now 
you  know  that  it  has  no  roots."  She  put  her  arm 
around  me.  "I  used  to  be  afraid  of  the  noise,"  she 
confessed  sheepishly.  "I  used  to  hide  my  head  in 
some  one's  lap.  I  never  knew  it  was  so  beautiful. 
You  made  me  see  that. " 

This  deference  pleased  me,  yet  it  did  not  take  away 
the  smart  from  which  I  was  suffering.  Indeed,  the 
calm  assertion  of  Djimlah  that  we  were  all  in  the 
same  way  children  of  God  hurt  me  more  than  any 
abstract  proposition  has  since  been  able  to.  Had 
she  intimated  that  the  Turks  and  the  Greeks  were 
52 


alike,  I  could  have  proved  to  her  by  actual  facts 
that  the  Greeks  were  superior  to  the  Turks  because 
they  had  attained  to  the  noblest  civilization,  the 
most  beautiful  architecture,  and  the  greatest  litera 
ture  in  the  world;  but  how  was  I  to  prove  my  posi 
tion  of  superiority  before  God? 

The  afternoon  passed  in  various  games,  in  which 
I  took  only  a  half-hearted  interest.  Then  came  sup 
per  and  bedtime.  I  was  spending  the  night  there, 
and  by  the  time  I  was  to  go  to  bed,  my  smart,  in 
stead  of  being  lessened,  had  grown  tremendously. 
I  undressed  silently. 

The  old  hanoum  came  in  to  hear  us  say  our  prayers. 
Up  to  this  time  I  had  not  minded  praying  with 
Djimlah  to  Allah.  I  was  sure  it  did  not  matter,  be 
cause  when  I  was  tucked  in  bed,  I  crossed  myself 
three  times,  and  implored  the  Virgin  Mary  to  watch 
over  me  and  over  those  I  loved.  To-night  it  was 
different.  If  I  were  to  show  Djimlah  that  I  did  not 
believe  in  her  words,  I  must  stop  praying  to  her  god; 
so  I  said :  — 

"I  shall  not  pray  to  Allah  to-night." 

"Oh,  but  you  must,"  Djimlah  declared.  "You 
would  n't  like  to  disappoint  Him,  would  you?" 

"I  don't  belong  to  Him,"  I  asserted  passionately. 
"I  don't  belong  to  Him.  I  belong  to  God;  so  I  don't 
care  whether  I  disappoint  Allah  or  not." 

53 


"Djimlah,"  interposed  her  grandmother,  "you 
must  let  the  little  hanoum  do  as  she  likes.  You  and 
I  can  pray  alone. " 

Djimlah  stood  before  her  grandmother,  her  face 
tilted  upward,  her  hands  outstretched,  palms  up 
ward. 

"Allah,  the  only  true  god  of  heaven  and  earth, 
be  praised!  There  is  no  other  god  but  God,  the  great, 
the  wonderful,  the  just.  Allah  be  praised!" 

She  kissed  her  grandmother  and  me,  and  the  old 
lady  kissed  us  both,  and  put  us  to  bed.  No  sooner 
was  she  out  of  the  room  than  Djimlah  said :  — 

"Baby  mine,  I  believe  the  storm  has  upset  you. 
You  have  been  so  quiet  all  the  afternoon  —  and  now 
you  don't  even  pray." 

"I  am  upset,"  I  replied.  "But  it  is  n't  the  storm 
—  it's  you." 

She  sat  up  in  bed.  "Now,  what  have  I  done  to 
offend  you,  when  you  are  under  my  roof  ?  " 

"It  was  n't  under  your  roof.  It  was  when  we  were 
in  the  open,  during  the  storm. " 

"That  part  of  the  heavenly  roof ,  being  over  grand 
father's  land,  is  our  roof, "  she  corrected  me. 

"Well,  I  don't  care  what  you  call  it,  you  have 
offended  me." 

"But,  darling,"  she  cried,  "how  did  I  do  it?    I 
don't  remember  it. " 
54 


"I  can't  quite  explain  it;  but  although  I  have  been 
very  fond  of  you,  I  don't  like  you  to  say  that  you 
and  I  are  the  children  of  God  in  the  same  way, 
and  —  " 

She  interrupted  me  —  and  it  was  a  pity,  too;  for 
at  the  moment  I  was  getting  it  quite  clear  how  she 
was  not  my  equal  before  God,  and  afterwards  I 
could  not  quite  get  it  again. 

"But,  yavroum,  much  loved  by  the  stars  and  the 
rivers,  are  we  not  Allah's  children,  you  and  I?" 

"No!"  I  cried  bitterly,  "I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
Allah.  He  is  a  cruel,  beastly  god,  who  tells  people 
to  kill,  —  and  you  know  you  have  killed  thousands 
of  us,  —  and  little  babies,  too!" 

To  my  surprise  I  found  myself  hating  the  Turks 
with  a  hatred  I  never  thought  I  could  feel  since  I  had 
come  to  know  them.  And  I  was  miserable  because 
I  was  in  the  same  bed  with  Djimlah. 

Her  eyes  glistened  in  the  semi-darkness.  Our  little 
bed  faced  the  windows,  where  there  were  no  curtains, 
and  the  light  undisturbed  was  pouring  in  from  the 
stars  above,  that  we  could  see  twinkling  at  us. 

"Funny!  funny!  funny!"  she  kept  saying  to  her 
self.  "I  thought  you  liked  us  —  and  oh!  I  do  adore 
you  so!  I  felt  as  if  truly  you  were  my  own  baby." 

She  had  on  a  nightdress  made  of  light  brown  cam 
bric,  with  yellow  and  red  flowers  on  it.  Her  hair  was 

55 


tied  at  the  top  of  her  head  with  a  yellow  ribbon,  from 
which  was  dangling  a  charm  against  the  evil  eye. 
It  came  over  me  how  unlike  a  Greek  child  she  was, 
and  how  very  Turkish. 

"Djimlah!"  I  cried,  "you  are  not,  and  you  shall 
not  be  my  equal  before  God. " 

She  crossed  her  hands  on  her  breast  and  became 
lost  in  meditation.  After  a  while  she  said :  — 

"There  is  no  other  god  but  God  —  and  we  are  all 
his  children.    So  they  told  me  and  I  believe  it  — 
don't  you?" 

I  shook  my  head.  "There  is  Allah,  and  there  is 
God,"  I  replied.  "And  I  am  a  Greek,  and  you  are 
a  Turk  —  and  the  Turks  are  very  cruel  people. " 

"Have  we  been  cruel  to  you,  all  this  long  time  you 
have  come  to  see  us?" 

"No,"  I  had  to  admit,  "but  you  are  cruel,  just 
the  same.  If  you  will  read  history  you  will  know  how 
cruel  you  are;  for  when  you  took  Constantinople, 
for  days  and  nights  you  were  killing  our  people  and 
burning  our  homes. "  I  was  ready  to  weep  over  our 
past  wrongs,  and  my  blood  was  boiling.  "I  don't 
love  you  any  more  —  and  God  does  n't  love  you 
either." 

Djimlah's  eyes  opened  wide.  "I  don't  understand. 
Let's  go  to  grandmother:  she  will  explain  things  to 
us." 
56 


"I  don't  want  them  explained.  I  shall  go  home  to 
morrow,  and  never,  never,  so  long  as  I  live,  shall 
I  again  speak  to  you,  or  to  any  Turkish  child. " 

At  this  Djimlah  began  to  cry:  at  first  softly,  then 
yelling  at  the  top  of  her  lungs.  This  brought  not 
only  the  old  hanoum,  but  a  bevy  of  the  younger 
ones. 

It  took  some  time  to  pacify  Djimlah,  who  managed 
to  convey  between  her  sobs  that  I,  her  own  baby, 
"her  own  flesh  and  blood,"  as  she  put  it,  was  no 
longer  coming  to  see  her,  because  she  was  a  Turkish 
child  and  because  Constantinople  had  been  burned. 

The  old  hanoum  sent  the  younger  women  out  of 
the  room,  put  Djimlah  on  the  hard  sofa  by  the  win 
dow,  and  wrapped  her  in  a  shawl.  Then  she  came 
to  me,  tucked  me  in  a  blanket,  and  carried  me  near 
to  Djimlah.  After  that  she  fetched  two  enormous 
Turkish  delights  with  nuts  in  them,  and  two  glasses 
of  water. 

"Both  of  you,  eat  and  drink." 

When  this  operation  was  over,  she  said  quietly: 
"Now  tell  me  all  about  it. " 

As  well  as  I  could,  I  told  her  of  what  Djimlah  had 
said,  and  of  my  feelings  on  the  subject. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  equal  with  her  before  God, " 
I  protested.  "It  is  n't  right;  for  she  is  a  Turk,  and 
I  am  a  Greek. " 

57, 


"Well,  my  sweet  yavroum,  you  are  all  mixed  up 
about  just  where  you  stand  before  God.  At  pres 
ent  you  stand  nowhere,  because  you  are  only  babies. 
As  you  grow  older  your  place  will  be  determined  by 
your  usefulness  in  the  world,  your  kindness  and 
gentleness,  by  the  way  you  will  treat  your  husband's 
mother  and  his  other  wives,  and  how  healthy  and 
well  brought  up  his  children  will  be.  As  to  your 
being  a  Greek  and  Djimlah  a  Turk,  that  is  only 
geography,"  she  explained,  vaguely.  "When  we 
shall  die  and  go  to  God,  we  shall  be  that  which  we 
have  made  of  ourselves. " 

"She  says  that  we  are  wicked  and  brutal,  and 
burned  Constantinople,  and  killed  the  people," 
Djimlah  moaned. 

"That  was  because  Allah  willed  it.  Nothing 
happens  without  the  will  of  Allah,  and  his  word 
must  be  carried  by  the  sword.  We  like  you  and  love 
you,  and  could  no  more  harm  you  than  we  could 
harm  Djimlah."  She  leaned  over  and  took  me  on 
her  lap.  "Now,  yavroum,  remember  that  Allah  is 
father  to  you  all,  and  he  loves  you  equally  well;  and 
all  you  have  to  do  is  to  love  each  other  and  be  good 
and  go  to  sleep,  and  that  will  please  Him." 

She  kissed  me,  and  drew  Djimlah  to  us,  and  made 
us  kiss  each  other. 

A  latent  sense  of  justice  made  me  recognize  how 
58 


good  she  was;  and  although  I  did  not  relinquish  my 
nationality  as  a  bit  of  geography,  I  recognized  that 
there  was  something  in  what  she  said.  So  I  kissed 
the  old  hanoum,  and  kissed  Djimlah,  and  obediently 
was  led  away  to  bed.  Then  she  sat  by  us  and  sang 
us  a  little  lullaby. 

After  she  had  left  us,  Djimlah  put  her  arms  around 
me  and  whispered:  "Do  you  love  me  again?  For  I 
love  you  just  the  same,  and  when  we  grow  up,  let 
us  marry  the  same  effendi,  and  never  be  separated. " 

I  did  not  go  away  the  next  day  because  Djimlah 
would  not  listen  to  it.  She  was  afraid  lest  I  should 
keep  to  my  first  intention,  and  never  return.  She 
wanted  to  talk  over  everything  with  me,  which  we 
did;  and  with  the  help  of  the  old  hanoum,  her  light 
and  her  kindness,  I  saw  things  a  little  better. 

Just  as  my  idea  of  the  ferocity  of  the  Turks  in 
their  homes  had  long  ago  vanished,  so  what  they 
believed  and  taught  God  to  be,  appealed  to  me;  and 
although  I  retained  my  own  idea  of  the  relative  im 
portance  of  the  two  races  in  this  world,  I  could  not 
help  feeling  that  perhaps  the  old  hanoum  was  right, 
and  that  our  position  before  God  was  less  a  matter 
of  creed  and  belief  than  of  how  we  lived  our  lives. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

YILDIRIM 

As  I  look  back  on  those  years  of  close  intimacy 
with  Turkish  children,  and  our  various  discussions 
and  squabbles,  I  cannot  but  feel  thankful  for  oppor 
tunities  denied  most  children.  And  I  can  see  now  that 
a  great  deal  of  the  hatred  which  separates  the  dif 
ferent  creeds  and  nationalities  is  inculcated  in  our 
hearts,  before  we  are  capable  of  judging,  by  those 
who  do  their  best  to  teach  us  brotherly  love. 

During  the  first  year  of  our  friendship,  Djimlah 
and  I  played  mostly  alone.  It  is  true  that  whenever 
other  harems  came  to  visit  Djimlah's,  and  brought 
along  girls  of  our  age,  we  had  to  accept  their  pres 
ence  —  either  with  alacrity  or  reluctance,  depending 
on  what  we  had  afoot.  There  were  days  when  Djim 
lah  and  I  were  about  to  enact  some  chapter  of  the 
Arabian  Nights,  and  then  we  little  cared  to  be  dis 
turbed  by  outsiders;  but  Oriental  politeness  forced 
Djimlah  to  play  the  hostess. 

I  rarely  invited  her  to  my  house.  First,  because 
my  mother  positively  objected  to  Turks;  and  sec 
ondly,  because  I  had  so  little  to  offer  her.  She  would 
have  to  share  my  life,  as  I  shared  hers,  and  my  life 
meant  lessons,  duties,  and  discipline;  so  I  preferred 
60 


to  go  to  her,  and  on  Saturday  nights  I  usually  slept 
there. 

We  were  quite  happy  by  ourselves,  because  we 
made  a  very  good  team.  Though  we  both  liked  to  be 
generals,  we  alternated  the  generalship.  At  one  time 
Djimlah  led,  the  next  she  obeyed  orders.  Our  gen 
eralship  consisted  in  planning  what  sort  of  characters 
we  were  to  be;  and  I  am  forced  to  confess  that  on 
the  days  of  Djimlah's  generalship  things  moved 
much  better.  Indeed,  I  had  to  spend  half  my  time 
as  general  in  explaining  to  her  the  Greek  mythology, 
in  order  that  she  might  understand  the  characters 
we  were  to  represent,  while  on  her  days  I  knew  the 
Arabian  Nights  as  well  as  she. 

Before  the  year  was  over,  we  admitted  to  our  circle 
a  third,  little  Chakende,  whose  father  was  a  subaltern 
of  Djimlah's  grandfather.  Chakende's  home  was 
not  far  from  ours,  yet  we  met  her  first  by  accident, 
and  ever  so  far  away  from  home. 

It  was  on  a  hot  August  evening,  once  when  I  was 
spending  the  night  with  Djimlah.  The  heat  was  so 
great  that  even  at  seven  o'clock  the  rooms  were  yet 
hot.  The  old  hanoum  said  it  was  not  necessary  for 
us  to  go  to  bed  until  it  became  cool,  and  we  were 
playing  in  the  garden.  We  were  up  in  a  tall  tree;  for 
I  had  taught  Djimlah  to  climb  —  a  thing  she  took 
to  much  more  naturally  than  to  learning  Greek 

61 


mythology.  The  tree  was  very  tall,  and  its  branches 
hung  over  the  high  garden  wall  which  protected  the 
haremlik  from  the  world's  eyes. 

Presently  a  little  urchin  came  and  stood  in  the 
street  below.  Like  a  bird  about  to  sing,  he  threw 
his  head  back,  and  in  a  clear,  loud  voice  half  chanted: 
"  Bou  axan  kaiihri  kaveshinde,  ei  karagiuzlar ,  kim 
istersin  bouyour  sun,"  which  meant,  "This  evening 
at  the  cafe  of  Kairi  there  is  to  be  a  good  show  of 
Punch  and  Judy,  and  who  wishes  to  come  is  wel 
come.  " 

Having  delivered  his  announcement,  he  walked 
a  block  farther  on  and  chanted  it  again.  By  the  time 
he  was  out  of  earshot,  we  had  the  words  letter  per 
fect,  and  began  to  chant  it  ourselves  from  the  top  of 
our  tree.  We  were  so  pleased  with  our  accomplish 
ment  that  we  scrambled  down  to  earth,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  deliver  it  before  each  of  the  groups  of 
women  lying  on  rugs  in  the  immense  garden,  waiting 
for  the  heat  to  lessen. 

Then,  with  the  privilege  of  our  age,  we  penetrated 
into  the  selamlik,  the  men's  quarters,  and  proceeded 
to  the  dining-room,  where  the  old  pasha,  his  sons, 
sons-in-law,  and  guests  were  dining.  We  mounted  on 
the  sofa,  and  hand  in  hand  burst  forth,  imitating  the 
street  urchin  as  best  we  were  able. 

The  men  laughed  till  the  tears  came  into  their 
62 


eyes;  then  the  old  pasha  bade  us  come  to  him,  and 
taking  one  of  us  on  each  knee,  he  asked :  - 

"So  the  young  hanoums  wish  to  go,  do  they?" 

"Go  where?"  we  inquired. 

"To  the  show  of  Punch  and  Judy." 

"  Can  we?  "  we  cried  simultaneously. 

"  I  believe  so, "  the  grandfather  replied. 

"  Go  now  —  this  minute?  " 

The  old  man  nodded. 

It  was  a  case  of  speechless  delight  with  us. 

The  old  pasha  turned  to  his  company.  "I  am 
going  to  take  the  little  hanoums  to  the  show,  and 
who  wishes  to  come  is  welcome." 

We  dashed  back  to  the  haremlik,  and  made  ready 
in  the  greatest  excitement.  Our  excitement  was 
shared  by  all  the  women.  They  came  in  to  see  us 
made  ready,  and  told  us  to  be  sure  to  remember 
everything  in  the  show  to  repeat  to  them. 

The  show  was  given  in  a  common  garden  cafe,  such 
as  the  small  bureaucracy  and  proletariat  of  Turkish 
masculinity  frequents;  but  the  Turks  are  essentially 
democratic,  and  our  party  did  not  mind  this  in  the 
least. 

The  limits  of  the  cafe  were  indicated  by  burlaps 
hung  on  ropes  to  screen  the  show  from  the  unpaying 
eye.  Within  were  seats  at  four  cents  apiece,  and  seats 
at  two  cents.  Djimlah  and  I  were  installed  in  special 

63 


chairs  at  five  cents,  placed  in  front  of  the  first  row, 
which  the  men  of  our  party  occupied  —  and  then 
the  show  opened. 

It  took  place  behind  a  piece  of  white  cheesecloth, 
lighted  by  oil  lamps,  and  a  few  wooden  puppets 
acted  the  play.  A  great  deal  of  swearing,  beating, 
killing,  and  dying  took  place,  in  the  most  picturesque 
Turkish.  The  audience  laughed  to  hysterics.  As  for 
Djimlah  and  me,  we  were  simply  delirious  with 
joy.  Nor  did  our  pleasure  end  with  that  evening. 
We  learned  a  lot  of  the  vernacular  of  the  piece,  and 
the  next  day  acted  it  for  the  delectation  of  the  en 
tire  harem,  who  made  us  repeat  it  several  times, 
Djimlah  being  half  the  characters,  and  I  the  other 
half. 

When  I  tried  to  repeat  my  histrionic  success  at 
home,  —  being  all  the  characters,  —  I  saw  my  father 
give  a  glance  at  my  mother,  who,  not  knowing  a  word 
of  Turkish,  sat  unperturbed,  while  our  two  men 
guests  were  doing  their  best  to  suppress  their 
laughter.  As  I  wanted  my  mother  to  enjoy  it,  too, 
I  began  to  explain  the  whole  thing  to  her,  but  by 
one  of  those  cabalistic  signs  which  existed  between 
my  father  and  myself,  I  understood  that  I  had  better 
not  explain;  and  after  we  were  alone,  my  father  said 
to  me:  — 

"You  know  mamma  does  not  like  Turkish  things, 
64 


and  you  had  better  never  explain  them  to  her.  As 
a  rule  I  would  rather  have  you  tell  them  to  me  when 
we  are  all  alone.  And  I  should  n't  like  you  to  repeat 
this  piece  again ;  for  although  it  may  be  right  for  the 
actors  to  say  all  the  things  they  did,  it  is  better  for 
little  girls  not  to  repeat  them." 

"  But,  father,"  I  protested,  frightfully  disap 
pointed,  "Djimlah  and  I  acted  it  all  before  her 
grandmother  and  the  ladies  of  her  household,  and 
they  made  us  repeat  it  several  times." 

"That  is  because  they  are  Turks.  We  are  Greeks, 
and  that  makes  a  very  big  difference. " 

It  was  at  this  Punch-and-Judy  show  that  we  met 
the  little  girl  who  was  to  become  our  constant  com 
panion.  During  an  intermission  her  father  came  up 
to  salute  the  old  pasha,  and  brought  little  Chakende 
with  him.  Immediately  Djimlah's  grandfather  or 
dered  an  extra  chair  for  the  little  girl,  and  told  her 
to  sit  down  beside  us.  She  was  very  sweet-looking, 
about  the  age  of  Djimlah.  We  liked  her  so  much 
that  we  asked  her  where  she  lived,  and  on  hearing 
that  it  was  not  far  from  us,  we  invited  her  to  come 
the  next  day  to  Djimlah's  house. 

This  she  did,  and  we  liked  her  even  better;  for 
she  submitted  to  us  very  gracefully.  She  never 
wavered  in  this  attitude,  but  it  was  far  from  being 
a  cowardly  submission. 

65 


She  was  then  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  boy  in 
Anatolia,  whose  father  had  been  a  lifelong  friend  of 
her  father's.  The  engagement  had  taken  place  when 
Chakend6  was  an  hour  old  and  the  lad  seven  years 
old.  By  blood  I  considered  Chakende"  superior  to 
Djimlah;  for  Djimlah's  forefathers,  for  hundreds  of 
years,  had  been  officials,  while  Chakende's  had  been 
warriors.  They  had  been  followers  of  the  great 
Tartar  ruler  Timur-Leng,  with  whose  people  the 
Turks  had  been  in  constant  warfare  for  centuries, 
now  one  side  and  then  the  other  being  victorious. 
It  was  this  Timur-Leng  who,  early  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  frightfully  defeated  the  Turks,  in  the  great 
battle  of  Angora,  and  took  Sultan  Bajazet  captive, 
and  kept  him  prisoner  in  a  cage  till  he  died. 

Chakend6  was  very  proud  of  this  descent,  and 
although  she  was  now  half  full  of  Turkish  blood,  yet 
she  clung  to  her  Tartar  ancestry,  and  when  she  told 
me  about  the  battles,  her  eyes  lighted  up  and  she 
was  very  pretty. 

The  lad  to  whom  she  was  engaged,  and  whom  she 
had  not  yet  seen,  was  also  of  the  same  clan,  and  she 
already  entertained  for  him  much  affection,  and 
often  spoke  of  him  in  such  terms  as,  "my  noble 
bey,"  "my  proud  betrothed." 

The  more  we  saw  of  her  the  better  we  liked  her, 
not  only  because  she  submitted  to  us,  but  because 
66 


she  fitted  so  well  into  all  the  parts  we  gave  her  to 
play,  and  we  generally  gave  her  such  parts  as  we  did 
not  ourselves  like  to  do.  Whenever  there  was  any 
fighting  to  do,  she  was  ordered  to  do  it,  because  she 
could  give  such  a  terrific  yell,  —  the  yell  of  the 
Timur-Leng  Clan,  she  said,  —  and  became  so  wild, 
and  made  the  fighting  seem  so  real,  that  we  liked  to 
watch  her.  And  she  was  really  brave;  for  she  never 
minded  worms  —  which  made  Djimlah  and  me  wrig 
gle  like  one. 

Chakende  did  not  speak  with  dislike  of  the  Turks 
to  me.  She  looked  upon  them  entirely  as  her  people. 
"We  have  become  one  race,"  she  said.  "They  are 
full  of  our  blood,  and  we  are  full  of  theirs.  Besides, 
we  are  of  the  same  faith. " 

I  could  see,  in  spite  of  Djimlah's  affection  for  me, 
and  the  old  hanoum's  kindness  and  tolerance,  and  of 
the  politeness  of  all  the  Turks  toward  us,  that  they 
held  a  Christian  to  be  inferior  to  a  Mohammedan. 
They  did  not  say  much  about  it,  but  I  felt  that  they 
considered  themselves  a  superior  race,  by  virtue  of 
their  origin  and  religion.  As  I  grew  older,  I  no  longer 
entered  into  national  or  religious  discussions.  I  did 
not  even  mind  their  feeling  superior,  since  I  knew 
that  this  feeling  was  all  they  had,  and  that  the  real 
superiority  lay  with  us,  and  if  they  did  not  have  this 
mistaken  conceit,  they  would  be  very  sorry  for  them- 

67 


selves.  And  in  spite  of  my  kindly  feelings  toward 
them,  I  was  always  aware  that  deep  down  in  my 
heart  was  planted  the  seed  of  hatred  toward  them 
—  a  seed  which  was  never  to  wither  and  die,  even 
if  it  were  not  to  grow  very  large. 

I  wonder  if  there  will  ever  come  a  time  when  little 
children  will  be  spared  the  planting  of  these  seeds, 
when  they  will  be  brought  up  in  the  teaching  that 
there  is  but  one  God  and  one  nationality  —  or  that 
the  God  and  the  nationality  of  other  little  children 
is  as  good  as  our  own;  that  we  are  all  brothers  and 
sisters,  linked  together  by  Nature  to  carry  out  her 
work,  and  to  give  to  each  other  the  best  that  is  in 
us?  I  wonder  whether  we  shall  ever  be  so  trained  as 
not  to  care  whether  our  particular  nation  is  big  and 
powerful,  but  whether  every  human  being  is  receiv 
ing  the  chance  to  develop  the  best  in  him,  in  order 
that  he  may  give  that  best  to  the  rest  of  the  world? 
The  bond  which  existed  between  Djimlah  and 
Chakende"  often  gave  me  food  for  thought.  For 
centuries  their  people  fought  each  other.  Then 
they  amalgamated  and  made  one,  loved  each  other, 
and  shared  each  other's  destiny.  My  people  had 
fought  their  people,  and  they  had  conquered  us  — 
yet  there  was  no  amalgamation.  My  civilization 
stood  on  one  side,  and  theirs  on  the  other,  and  in 
that  dividing  line  stood  Christ  and  Mohammed,  in- 
68 


surmountable  barriers.  I  loved  Djimlah,  I  loved 
Chakende;  but  if  any  question  arose,  I  was  fore 
most  a  Greek,  and  they  were  Turks.  They  were 
Turks  having  the  upper  hand  over  us  —  a  hand 
armed  with  a  scourge.  And  if  they  kept  that  hand 
behind  their  back  and  I  could  not  see  it,  I  knew  that 
it  held  the  whip,  and  that  at  times  they  used  it  both 
heavily  and  unjustly.  And  I  felt  that  my  race  must 
watch  its  opportunity  to  get  hold  of  that  whip. 

The  arrival  of  ChakendS,  and  later  of  Nashan  and 
Semmaya,  brought  into  my  friendship  with  Djimlah 
a  feeling  which  did  not  exist  before.  It  is  true  that 
on  the  first  day  we  met,  Djimlah  and  I  almost  fought 
over  the  bravery  of  our  respective  nations,  and  her 
assumption  of  equality  before  God  had  almost  ended 
our  friendship;  yet  never  by  word  or  sign  did  she  do 
anything  to  rouse  our  racial  antagonism.  But  when 
we  two  grew  into  a  group,  and  of  that  group  I  re 
mained  the  only  Greek,  they  sometimes  forgot,  and 
spoke  unguardedly. 

One  day,  for  example,  when  Djimlah's  grandfather 
had  given  each  of  us  some  money  to  spend,  we  were 
waiting  for  the  afternoon  vendor  to  pass,  in  order  to 
buy  candy.  We  waited  for  a  long  time,  —  unendur- 
ably  long,  we  thought,  —  before  the  stillness  of  the 
afternoon  vibrated  with  the  words:  - 

"Seker,sekerjit" 

69 


JJUU. 


We  rushed  to  the  door,  pennies  in  hand,  and 
stamped  impatiently  for  the  white-clad  figure  to 
come  near.  Then  Chakende"  exclaimed  peevishly:  - 

"Oh,  it  isn't  Ali.  It's  the  Christian  dog.  Let's 
not  buy  of  him  —  let's  wait  for  Ali." 

In  an  instant  I  was  transformed.  I  was  wholly  the 
child  of  my  uncle,  wearing  the  Turkish  yoke.  I  got 
hold  of  Chakende's  two  long  braids,  and  pulled  and 
kicked  —  for  when  it  came  to  real,  not  make-believe 
fighting,  I  was  more  than  her  equal. 

Djimlah's  courtesy  and  tact  alone  saved  the  situ 
ation.  She  immediately  called  to  the  Christian 
sekerji,  and  told  us  she  was  going  to  treat  us  with 
all  her  pennies.  Moreover,  she  addressed  herself  most 
politely  to  the  vendor,  approved  of  his  wares,  and 
even  praised  his  complexion  to  him. 

Occurrences  similar  to  this  arose  from  time  to  time. 
If  not  often,  still  they  did  arise,  and  they  served  as 
water  and  air  and  sunshine  to  the  little  seed  planted 
years  before.  I  used  to  become  so  angry,  and  to 
strike  them  so  hard  and  so  quickly,  that  they 
nicknamed  me  "yUdifim,"  which  means  thunder 
storm. 

Djimlah  had  a  little  boy  cousin,  Mechmet,  who 

lived  a  short  distance  from  her,  and  who  sometimes 

came  to  play  with  her.   He  was  nice  and  generous, 

and  gave  us  ungrudgingly  of  whatever  he  had.   He 

70 


was  particularly  nice  to  me,  and  I  liked  him  be 
cause  he  had  large  blue  eyes  and  light  golden  hair. 

One  day  when  we  were  playing  together  he  said 
to  me:  "I  like  you  ever  so  much,  and  when  we  grow 
up  we  can  be  married. " 

I  shook  my  head:  "That  can't  be,  because  you  are 
a  Turk  and  I  am  a  Greek. " 

"  That  does  n't  matter.  I  shall  make  you  my  wife 
just  the  same, "  he  answered  confidently. 

From  a  remote  past  there  arose  memories  in  me, 
memories  perhaps  acquired  through  reading,  or  lived 
in  former  existences,  and  pictures  came  before  me  of 
Greek  parents  weeping  because  a  little  girl  was  born 
to  them  —  a  little  girl  who,  if  she  grew  up  to  be 
pretty,  would  be  mercilessly  snatched  from  them  and 
taken  to  a  Turkish  salemlik.  And  as  picture  suc 
ceeded  picture,  I  became  again  entirely  the  child  of 
my  uncle,  with  a  hatred  for  the  Turks  as  ungovern 
able  as  it  seemed  holy. 

Wild  now,  like  a  fierce  little  brute,  I  struck  Mech- 
met,  and  struck  and  struck  again;  and  at  the  sight 
of  the  blood  flowing  from  his  nose  an  exaltation  pos 
sessed  me.  I  was  a  girl,  I  could  not  carry  arms  — 
but  with  my  own  hands  I  could  kill  a  Turkish  boy, 
and  be  able  to  say  to  my  uncle  when  we  met  in  the 
other  world:  "Uncle,  girl  though  I  am,  I  have  killed 
a  Turk!" 


D  jimlah,  after  vainly  imploring  us  to  stop  fighting, 
ran  to  the  cistern  and  drew  a  bucket  of  cold  water. 
In  our  battle  we  had  fallen  down,  and  Djimlah 
drenched  us  with  water,  and  the  icy  shower  stopped 
our  battle. 

In  our  room  she  was  very  severe  with  me.  "  Baby 
mine,  I  believe  sometimes  you  are  mad!  Why,  you 
ought  only  to  be  glad  if  a  boy  says  he  will  marry 
you.  What  are  girls  for,  but  to  be  given  to  men  and 
to  bear  them  children?  " 

"Did  I  kill  him?"  I  asked  anxiously. 

She  thought  I  was  frightened,  and  came  over  and 
smoothed  my  hair.  "Of  course,  you  did  n't  kill  him; 
but  he  is  much  the  worse  for  the  beating  you  gave 
him." 

Then  I  wept  bitterly  in  utter  contempt  for  myself 
at  having  failed  in  such  a  small  task  as  killing  just 
a  little  Turkish  boy.  Years  afterwards,  when  I  ac 
cidentally  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  the  Armenian 
massacres,  I  could  appreciate,  probably  better  than 
most  spectators,  the  feeling  of  racial  antipathy  which 
gloried  in  the  shedding  of  blood. 


CHAPTER  IX 

I  AM  REMINDED  OF  MY   SONS   AGAIN 

THE  little  girl  who  made  the  fourth  of  our  group, 
was  Nashan,  whom  I  met  under  peculiar  circum 
stances. 

My  father  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  me  with  him 
whenever  he  went  for  a  long  walk.  Generally  other 
men  were  along,  and  their  conversation  consisted 
of  politics,  a  subject  which  delighted  me  especially, 
though  I  could  but  half  understand  it. 

On  one  such  day  we  were  walking  on  the  St. 
Nicholas  Road,  which  was  long  and  wide,  with  the 
hills  on  one  side,  scattered  cypress  trees  and  the  sea 
on  the  other.  The  sun  was  setting,  the  heat  of  the 
day  was  calming,  and  the  Sea  of  Marmora,  roused 
by  the  breeze,  was  rhythmically  lapping  the  shore, 
and  adding  freshness  to  the  hour. 

My  father,  as  usual,  was  discussing  politics  with 
another  Greek,  and  I,  my  hoop  over  my  shoulder, 
was  holding  fast  to  one  of  his  long  fingers,  while  my 
little  feet  heroically  tried  to  keep  step  with  the  big 
feet  beside  them. 

At  a  turn  in  the  road  we  came  upon  a  group  of 
Turks,  preceded  by  a  little  girl,  seated  astride  a 
richly  caparisoned  donkey  whose  head  was  covered 

73 


with  blue  beads.  She  herself  fairly  outshone  the 
donkey  in  gorgeousness.  I  knew  her  by  sight,  as 
children  know  each  other,  and  she  always  aroused  the 
liveliest  interest  in  me  on  account  of  her  costumes. 
I  never  wore  anything  myself  except  simple  white 
linen,  with  an  English  sailor  hat,  my  sole  gold  adorn 
ment  the  name  of  Her  Majesty's  dreadnought  on 
its  ribbon. 

The  first  time  I  had  encountered  her,  I  had  almost 
yelled  at  her,  thinking  she  was  dressed  up  for  fun, 
but  the  calm  dignity  with  which  she  had  worn  her 
ridiculous  attire  had  convinced  me  that  these  were, 
indeed,  her  usual  clothes. 

To-day  she  had  on  a  red  velvet  gown,  trimmed 
with  gold  lace,  and  made  in  the  latest  Parisian 
fashion  for  grown-up  women.  Her  silk-mittened 
hands,  bejeweled  with  rings  and  bracelets,  held  a 
crop  with  a  golden  head,  from  which  floated  yards 
and  yards  of  pale-blue  ribbon.  On  her  head  perched 
a  pink  silk  hat,  adorned  with  large  white  ostrich 
plumes.  Quite  in  contrast  to  all  this,  a  lock  of  hair 
hung  down  the  middle  of  her  forehead,  to  which  were 
tied  pieces  of  garlic  and  various  other  charms  to 
ward  off  the  evil  eye. 

The  men  of  her  group  saluted  the  men  of  mine. 
The  little  girl  eyed  me,  and  I  frankly  stared  at  her. 
When  the  men's  temcnas  were  ended,  she  piped  up:  - 
74 


"Father,  this  is  the  little  girl  I  was  telling  you  of 
-  the  one  that  always  dresses  in  sheeting." 

To  think  of  a  person  dressed  as  she  was  criticizing 
my  clothes.  I  rose  on  the  points  of  my  little  white 
shoes,  and  extended  an  accusing  finger  at  her:  — 

"And  you  are  dressed  like  a  saltimbanquel"  I 
said. 

A  circus-rider  was  the  only  person  with  whom  I 
felt  I  could  properly  compare  her. 

"Oh!  it  is  not  true,"  the  little  girl  wailed.  "I  am 
dressed  like  a  great  lady. " 

The  pasha,  her  father,  smiled  at  my  father.  "  Zarar 
yok  Effeddim!"  (They  will  some  day  be  women.) 

My  father  saluted,  and  apologized  for  me,  and  we 
went  on  our  way.  A  few  minutes  later,  although  I 
knew  it  had  not  been  his  intention,  we  mounted  the 
stone  steps  which  led  to  a  rustic,  open-air  cafe. 

He  chose  a  table  apart  from  the  others,  and  gave  an 
order  to  the  waiter.  He  said  no  word  either  to  his 
companion  or  to  me,  but  I  knew  that  he  was  worried. 
After  the  waiter  had  filled  his  order  and  gone,  he 
spoke :  — 

"My  daughter,  you  have  just  insulted  that  child. " 

"But,  father,"  I  protested,  "she  insulted  me 
first." 

"  She  did  not.  Are  you  not  dressed  in  the  material 
of  which  sheets  are  made?" 

75 


"And  is  she  not  dressed  like  a  saltimbanque?"  I 
argued. 

"That  is  an  insult;  for  she  thinks  she  is  correctly 
dressed.  Moreover,  my  child,  we  are  the  conquered 
race,  and  they  are  the  masters  here.  So  long  as  we 
are  the  conquered  race,  we  must  accept  insults,  but 
we  are  not  in  a  position  to  return  them.  When  you 
become  a  woman,  teach  this  bitter  truth  to  your 
sons,  and  maybe  some  day  we  shall  no  longer  need 
to  accept  insults." 

This  was  the  first  time  my  father  had  referred  to 
my  sons,  and  what  I  ought  to  teach  them,  since  the 
day  he  had  asked  me  not  to  think  about  them,  but 
to  get  well  and  strong.  He  remained  for  some  time 
after  this,  and  so  did  his  companion.  When  we  had 
finished  our  refreshments,  my  father  rose. 

"We  had  better  go  home  now.  I  fear  that  some 
thing  may  come  out  of  this. " 

"I  fear  so,  too,"  the  other  man  said. 

The  first  thing  my  father  asked,  at  home,  was 
whether  a  message  had  come  from  Saad  Pasha.  None 
had. 

He  sent  me  to  my  room  without  my  customary 
kiss,  and  a  vague  terror  brooded  over  me  during  the 
whole  restless  night. 

The  next  morning  when  I  went  to  my  father's 
study  and  wished  him  good-morning,  he  only  nodded 
76 


to  me,  and  kept  on  reading  his  paper.  I  retreated  to 
the  window,  where  I  occupied  myself  with  breathing 
on  the  panes  and  tracing  figures  on  them  with  the 
point  of  my  forefinger.  It  was  only  a  pretense  of 
occupation,  and  I  was  alert  for  every  movement  of 
my  father's,  hoping  he  would  relent  and  make 
friends  again. 

Presently  the  door  of  our  garden  opened,  and 
admitted  a  Turkish  slave,  followed  by  another,  car 
rying  a  much  beribboned  and  beflowered  basket 
on  his  head.  I  greatly  wished  to  impart  this  news  to 
my  father;  but,  glancing  at  him,  I  decided  that  if  I 
wished  to  remain  in  the  room  I  had  better  stay  quiet. 

But  what  could  be  in  the  basket?  I  might  have 
gone  to  inquire,  except  that  I  feared  if  I  left  the 
heaven  of  the  study,  its  doors  might  close  behind  me. 
Besides,  if  the  basket  were  for  my  father,  it  would  be 
presently  brought  in;  perhaps  I  should  be  permitted 
to  open  it,  and  —  from  experience  I  knew  that 
such  baskets  often  contained  the  sweetest  of  sweets. 
So  I  waited  quietly. 

The  door  opened.  Instead  of  the  basket,  my  mother 
entered,  a  perplexed  frown  on  her  forehead,  a  letter 
in  her  hand. 

"What  is  it?"  my  father  asked,  rising. 

"Here  is  a  letter  which  came  with  a  basket  from 
Saad  Pasha.  I  cannot  read  it.  It  is  in  Turkish. " 

77 


My  father  took  the  letter  and  read  it,  and  as  he 
did  so  an  expression  of  relief  came  into  his  face. 

"  His  wife  invites  you  to  go  to  her  at  once. " 

"What!"  my  mother  cried, —  "I  go  to  her?  // 
And  pray  why?" 

My  father  pointed  to  me.  "This  is  the  why"; 
and  he  related  the  incident  of  the  previous  evening. 

"I  will  not  go!"  My  mother  stamped  her  foot. 
"I  have  never  crossed  a  Turk's  threshold,  and  I 
hope  to  die  without  doing  so." 

My  father  walked  up  and  down  the  room  twice. 
At  length  he  said  slowly:  - 

"There  is  the  choice  of  crossing  this  Turkish 
threshold  —  because  you  are  bidden  to  —  or  all  of 
us  may  have  to  cross  the  frontier,  leaving  home  and 
comfort  behind  us.  Saad  Pasha  is  a  powerful  man, 

—  at  the  present  moment  the  favorite  in  the  palace, 

—  and  our  child  has  insulted  his. " 

Both  my  parents  remained  silent  for  a  minute, 
and  my  childish  heart  burned  with  hatred  for  these 
Turks,  who  were  our  masters.  It  seemed  as  if  I  could 
never  live  a  month  without  having  to  hate  them  anew. 

"I  cannot  speak  their  dreadful  language,"  my 
mother  protested,  half  yielding. 

"Take  this  child  with  you,"  my  father  said,  point 
ing  again  at  me.   It  was  dreadful  to  be  called  "  this 
child." 
78 


Half  an  hour  later  I  was  driving  by  my  mother's 
side  to  the  koniak  of  the  powerful  pasha. 

My  mother  had  said  the  truth.  She  had  never 
crossed  the  threshold  of  a  haremlik;  and  to  her  all 
Turks,  be  they  men,  women,  or  children,  were  pestif 
erous  beings.  She  hated  them  as  loyally  and  as 
fervently  as  she  worshiped  her  Christian  God,  and 
adored  her  own  flag.  She  was  a  Greek  of  the  old 
blood,  who  could  believe  nothing  good  of  those  who, 
four  hundred  years  before,  had  conquered  her  peo 
ple  and  beheaded  her  patriarch. 

And  now,  because  of  her  daughter's  misbehavior, 
she  was  forced  to  obey  the  summons  of  a  Turkish 
woman.  It  was  cruel  and  humiliating,  and,  child 
though  I  was,  I  felt  this. 

The  large  doors  of  the  koniak  were  thrown  open, 
as  soon  as  our  carriage  stopped  before  them.  The 
immense  hall  within  was  filled  with  women,  in  many- 
colored  garments  and  beflowered  headdresses.  And 
as  they  salaamed  to  the  floor,  they  looked  like  huge 
flowers  bending  before  the  wind.  A  number  of 
times  they  rose  and  fell,  rhythmically.  Then  a  lovely 
lady,  in  the  old  Anatolian  costume,  advanced  and 
greeted  us. 

There  is  no  language  in  the  world  which  lends  it 
self  so  prettily  to  yards  and  yards  of  welcoming  words 
as  Turkish.  I  translated  the  phrases,  full  of  perfume 

79 


And  flowers,  which  formed  such  a  harmony  with  the 
ladies  and  the  home  we  were  in,  until  even  my  mother 
was  touched  by  the  pomp  with  which  we  were  re 
ceived;  and  the  words  full  of  exotic  charm  and  cour 
tesy  did  much  to  assuage  her  bitterness. 

I  could  see  that  she  was  even  beginning  to  take 
an  interest  in  this  life  so  entirely  new  to  her.  When 
the  Turkish  lady  went  on  to  say  that  she  was  a 
stranger  in  this  land;  that  she  had  come  from  far 
away  Anatolia  because  her  Lord-Master  and  Giver 
of  Life  was  now  near  the  Shadow  of  Allah  on  Earth, 
and  that  she  wished  guidance,  my  mother  relented 
considerably.  She  had  expected  to  be  treated  de 
haul  en  bas:  instead,  she  was  received  not  only  as  an 
equal,  but  as  one  possessing  superior  knowledge. 

With  the  same  pomp  and  ceremony  we  were 
escorted  upstairs,  where  we  were  served  sweatmeats 
and  coffee;  and  again  sweetmeats  and  sorbets.  Then 
water  was  poured  from  brass  pitchers  into  brass 
bowls;  we  rinsed  our  hands  and  wiped  them  on  em 
broidered  napkins. 

The  sweet-faced  lady  spoke  again,  and  I  translated. 

She  wished  to  know  whether  her  little  Nashan  was 
dressed  like  a  great  lady,  or  like  —  whatever  the 
word  was. 

"My  mother  has  never  seen  Nashan,"  I  volun 
teered. 
80 


Thereupon  Nashan  was  brought  in,  clad  in  a  pale- 
green  satin  gown,  low-necked  and  short-sleeved,  in 
perfect  fashion  for  a  European  lady  going  to  a 
ball. 

My  mother  surveyed  her  doubtfully. 

"Is  she  dressed  like  a  great  lady?"  the  hanoum 
asked. 

My  mother  pronounced  her  dressed  like  a  lady. 

The  hanoum  scrutinized  my  mother's  countenance. 

"Ask  your  mother  why  she  does  not  dress  you  the 
same  way?"  she  said. 

The  reply  was  that  I  was  too  little  for  such  a  gown. 

"How  old  are  you?"  the  hanoum  inquired. 

"I  am  nine"  —and  I  should  have  added  some 
remarks  of  my  own  about  Nashan's  dress,  had  not 
the  memory  of  the  results  of  recent  observations  of 
mine  been  still  too  fresh. 

"My  little  Nashan  is  eleven.  Ask  your  mother 
whether  she  will  dress  you  like  my  Nashan  the  year 
after  next." 

"No,"  was  the  reply. 

"Why  not?  Is  it  because  you  have  not  so  much 
money  as  we  have,  and  because  your  father  is  not  so 
powerful  as  my  lord?" 

That  was  not  the  reason. 

Again  the  hanoum  scrutinized  my  mother,  from 
her  hat  to  her  boots,  and  back  again. 

81 


"Why  is  your  mother  dressed  so  somberly?  Is  she 
a  sad  woman,  or  is  her  master  a  stingy  man?  " 

In  very  polite  words  my  mother  conveyed  to  her 
that  European  women  did  not  wear  gaudy  clothes 
on  the  streets.  And  little  by  little,  with  the  help  of 
a  child's  interpretation,  the  woman  from  the  remote 
district  of  Anatolia  comprehended  that  her  child  was 
not  dressed  as  a  well-bred  European  child  would  be. 

Tears  of  mortification  came  into  her  eyes. 

"To  think, "  she  wailed,  "  that  I,  who  love  my  only 
baby  so  dearly  and  who  have  made  for  her  a  gown 
for  every  day  of  the  month,  should  only  have  con 
trived  to  make  her  ridiculous!" 

"Oh,  mother!"  cried  Nashan,  "am  I  then  dressed 
like  a  saltimbanque,  and  not  like  a  great  lady?" 

The  mother  folded  her  little  one  in  her  arms,  kissed 
away  her  tears,  and  tried  to  comfort  her. 

"My  little  Rose  Petal,  thy  mother  has  made  a 
mistake.  She  begs  thee,  Seed  of  Glorious  Roses,  to 
forgive  her.  Say  so,  my  little  one;  say  that  thou  for- 
givest  thy  ignorant  mother." 

"I  love  my  mother!"  the  child  sobbed.  "I  love 
my  mother!" 

"Then,  dry  thy  tears,  my  little  Petal;  for  the  lady 
here  will  help  us. " 

With  a  humility  perhaps  only  to  be  found  among 
Turkish  women,  a  humility  which  yet  was  self-re- 
82 


specting  and  proud,  the  wife  of  the  powerful  pasha 
placed  herself  entirely  under  the  guidance  of  the  wife 
of  a  Greek. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  my  friendship  with 
Nashan.  Thenceforth  she  dressed  in  "sheeting"  and 
was  educated  in  a  scrupulously  European  manner. 
Masters  were  engaged  to  teach  her  French  and  music. 
The  hanoum  accepted  every  bit  of  advice  my  mother 
gave  her,  save  one:  she  would  not  consent  to  a  resi 
dent  foreign  governess. 

"  No, "  she  said,  in  her  humble  yet  determined  way, 
"I  will  not  give  up  my  child  entirely  to  a  foreign 
woman.  Her  character  belongs  to  me,  and  by  me 
alone  it  shall  be  moulded. " 

Naturally  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  Nashan,  and  we 
came  to  love  each  other  dearly.  She  had  brought 
from  Anatolia,  along  with  her  adorable  little  face, 
something  of  the  character  of  her  untamed  moun 
tains.  As  we  grew  from  year  to  year,  we  used,  child 
like,  to  talk  of  many  things  we  little  understood; 
and  once  she  said  to  me:  "I  am  sure  of  the  exist 
ence  of  Allah;  for  at  times  He  manifests  Himself 
to  me  so  quickly  that  I  believe  He  lives  within 
me." 

At  such  moments  as  these  I  believe  the  real  Nashan 
was  uppermost.  Generally  speaking,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  she  more  and  more  lost  her  native  simplicity, 

83 


with  her  acquirement  of  European  culture,  and  more 
openly  despised  the  customs  of  her  own  country. 

Her  early  velvet  and  satin  gowns  were  given  us  to 
play  with;  and  many  a  rainy  day  we  spent  in  adorn 
ing  ourselves  with  her  former  gorgeousness.  Then 
Nashan  would  stand  before  me  and  humorously 
demand:  — 

"Am  I  a  great  lady,  or  am  I  a  saltimbanque?" 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   GARDEN  GODDESS 

IT  was  natural  that  I  should  bring  Nashan  toDjim- 
lah,  and  that  she  should  become  the  fourth  of  our 
group.  Mechmet,  and  his  brother  Shaadi,  also  often 
came  to  spend  the  day  at  Djimlah's,  and  joined  in 
our  games. 

Djimlah's  grandmother  was  desirous  that  we  four 
girls  should  have  some  of  our  lessons  together,  and 
my  mother,  from  the  distance,  could  only  acquiesce 
in  this.  Thus  I  saw  them  daily ;  and  the  more  frequent 
contact  brought  forth  more  frequent  causes  for  war 
fare  between  us.  And  when  they  were  all  together, 
the  fact  of  their  being  Turks  became  more  empha 
sized,  and  within  me  there  burned  the  desire  to  dazzle 
them  with  what  the  Greeks  really  had  been  in  the 
world. 

The  way  came  to  me  one  night  when  Sleep  totally 
deserted  me,  and  in  its  stead  Inspiration  sat  by  my 
pillow.  Since  they  knew  absolutely  nothing  of  Greek 
history,  I  would  tell  it  to  them  as  a  story.  Feverishly 
I  sketched  it  all  out  in  my  head.  I  would  begin  at 
the  very  beginning,  showing  them  how  Prometheus 
stole  the  divine  fire  to  create  the  Greeks.  The  Turks 
should  come  into  the  tale  under  the  name  of  Pelas- 

85 


gians,  —  yes,  I  would  call  them  Pelasgians,  while 
the  Greeks  should  be  called  Prometheans.  I  could 
tell  a  story  very  well,  at  the  time,  and  I  hugged  my 
pillow  fervently  at  the  thought  of  my  three  compan 
ions  breathlessly  listening  to  the  recital  of  the  great 
deeds  of  the  Greeks  —  and  loathing  the  Turks  for 
all  their  misdoings.  And  when  I  had  them  properly 
moved,  I  should  explain  to  them  that  this  was  not 
a  story,  but  real  history:  that  the  Prometheans  were 
the  Greeks,  and  the  Pelasgians  were  the  Turks.  And 
I  should  conclude:  "You  may  call  yourselves  the 
proud  Osmanlis,  and  you  may  think  that  you  are 
the  chosen  people  of  Allah,  but  this  is  what  His 
tory  thinks  of  you  —  that's  what  you  are  to  the 
world." 

I  was  so  excited  to  begin  my  work  that  I  slept  no 
more  that  night.  Yet  on  the  very  next  day  I  learned 
that  my  most  inconsiderate  parents  had  decided  to 
go  for  a  few  months  to  the  Bosphorus.  It  always 
struck  me  as  the  worst  side  of  grown-ups  that  they 
never  considered  the  plans  of  the  little  ones.  They 
will  teach  you,  "It  is  not  polite  to  interrupt  papa  or 
mamma  with  your  affairs  when  they  are  busy" 
while  papa  or  mamma  are  only  talking  silly,  unin 
teresting  stuff  which  might  very  well  be  interrupted. 
Yet  how  often,  when  I  was  intently  watching  a  cloud 
teaching  me  his  art  of  transforming  himself  from  a 
86 


chariot  to  an  immense  forest,  or  from  a  tiger  to  a  bevy 
of  birds,  mamma  would  interrupt  without  even 
apologizing;  and  were  I  to  say  to  her,  "Just  wait  a 
minute,"  —  as  mamma  thousands  of  times  said  to 
me,  —  I  should  be  called  a  rude  little  girl. 

Thus  it  happened  that  when  my  life's  work  was 
unfolded  before  my  eyes  by  an  inspiration,  I  was 
snatched  away  to  that  outlandish  place,  the  Bos- 
phorus. 

And  there,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  house 
we  took,  with  nothing  between  us  but  fields  and 
gardens,  lived  a  Turkish  general  and  his  family.  I 
do  not  recall  his  name,  for  every  one  spoke  of  him 
as  the  Damlaly  Pasha,  which  means  "  the  pasha  who 
has  had  a  stroke." 

His  was  a  modest  house,  surrounded  by  a  garden, 
the  wall  of  which  had  tumbled  down  in  one  place, 
offering  a  possible  means  of  ingress  to  a  small  child 
of  my  activity.  Some  day  I  meant  to  avoid  the  vigi 
lance  of  the  elders  and  to  penetrate  into  the  heart  of 
that  unknown  garden;  for  the  opening  was  forever 
beckoning  to  me.  But  though  I  had  not  yet  been  able 
to  do  so,  I  had  already  managed  to  peep  into  it,  — 
and  there  I  had  seen  a  young  woman  picking  flowers, 
who  seemed  to  me  the  embodiment  of  a  fairy  queen. 

Every  Friday  morning  the  general  went  over  to 
Constantinople,  to  ride  in  the  sultan's  procession,  as 

87 


I  afterwards  learned.  He  wore  his  best  uniform,  and 
his  breast  was  covered  with  medals.  A  eunuch  and 
a  little  girl  always  accompanied  him  to  the  landing, 
and  their  way  led  past  our  house. 

Being  lonely  at  the  time,  I  took  a  great  interest 
in  the  happenings  on  our  road,  and  I  learned  to  wait 
every  Friday  morning  for  the  queer  trio:  the  gor 
geously  uniformed  and  bemedaled  old  general,  pain 
fully  trailing  his  left  foot;  the  old,  bent  eunuch,  in  a 
frock  coat  as  old  and  worn-out  as  himself;  and  the 
fresh  little  girl,  with  all  her  skirts  stuffed  into  a 
tight-fitting  pair  of  trousers. 

I  thought  her  quite  pretty,  in  spite  of  the  ridic 
ulous  trousers.  Her  hair  was  light,  as  is  the  color 
of  ripe  wheat,  and  her  eyes  were  as  blue  as  if  God  had 
made  them  from  a  bit  of  his  blue  sky.  I  nicknamed 
her  "  Sitanthy, "  and  used  to  make  up  stories  about 
her,  and  was  always  wondering  what  her  relation 
ship  was  to  the  old  general.  Once  I  heard  her  call 
him  father,  but  I  felt  sure  he  could  not  be  that.  To 
my  way  of  thinking  a  father  was  a  tall,  slim,  good- 
looking  person.  The  other  species  of  men  were  either 
uncles,  or  grandfathers,  or,  worse  yet,  bore  no  re 
lationship  to  little  girls,  but  were  just  so  many  stray 
men. 

I  never  contemplated  talking  to  the  little  girl  — 
she  was  to  me  almost  a  fictitious  character,  like  one 
88 


of  the  people  I  knew  and  consorted  with  in  our  Greek 
mythology  —  until  fate  brought  us  together. 

One  wonderful,  mysterious  summer  evening  thous 
ands  of  fireflies  were  peopling  the  atmosphere.  I 
had  never  seen  so  many  before,  and  wanted  to  stay 
up  and  play  with  them.  But  the  tyranny  of  the  elders 
decreed  that  I  should  be  put  to  bed  at  the  customary 
hour,  as  if  it  had  been  any  ordinary  night. 

I  believe  few  of  the  elders  retain  the  powers  of 
childhood,  which  see  far  beyond  the  confines  of  the 
seen  world  —  else  why  should  they  have  insisted  on 
my  leaving  this  romantic  world  outside,  which  was 
beckoning  me  to  join  its  revels? 

However,  they  did  put  me  to  bed,  and  as  usual 
told  me  to  shut  my  eyes  tight  and  go  to  sleep.  But 
shutting  one's  eyes  does  not  make  one  go  to  sleep. 
On  the  contrary,  one  sees  many  more  things  than 
before.  The  beauty  of  the  night  had  intoxicated  me. 
I  was  a  part  of  Nature,  and  she  was  claiming  me  for 
her  own.  There  was  a  pond  in  our  garden  where 
frogs  lived.  They,  too,  must  have  felt  the  power  of 
to-night's  beauty;  for  they  were  far  more  loquacious 
than  usual.  I  listened  to  them  for  a  long  time,  — 
and  presently  I  understood  that  they  were  talking 
to  me. 

"Get  up,  little  girl!"  they  were  saying.  "Get  up, 
little  girl!" 

89 


For  hours  and  hours  they  kept  this  up,  now  softly 
and  insinuatingly,  then  swelling  into  loud  command. 

They  ended  by  persuading  me.  I  crept  from  my 
bed,  put  on  my  slippers,  threw  over  my  "nighty" 
the  pink  little  wrap  with  its  silklined  hood,  and  went 
out  on  the  balcony  outside  of  my  window.  From 
there  I  slid  down  one  of  the  columns,  and  before  I 
knew  it,  was  on  the  ground.  Supreme  moment  of 
happiness!  I  was  free  —  free  to  revel  in  the  wonders 
of  the  night,  free  from  vigilance  and  from  orders. 

Clasping  my  wrap  closely  around  me,  I  first  went 
to  the  pond,  and  told  the  frogs  that  I  was  up. 

"That's  right,  little  girl!"  they  answered  me. 
"  That 's  right,  little  girl ! "  But  that  was  all  they  had 
to  say  to  me,  so  I  left  them  and  gave  myself  up  to  the 
deliciousness  of  being  out  of  bed  at  an  hour  when  all 
well-regulated  children  should  be  in  bed  —  according 
to  the  laws  of  the  elders. 

The  fireflies  laughed  and  danced  with  me,  twink 
ling  in  and  out  of  the  darkness.  They  seemed  like 
thousands  of  little  stars,  who,  tired  of  contemplating 
the  world  from  the  heights  above,  like  me  had  escaped 
vigilance,  and,  deserting  the  firmament,  had  slid 
down  to  the  earth  to  play. 

What  a  lot  they  had  to  say  to  me,  these  cheerful 
little  sparks.  On  and  on  we  wandered  together. 
They  always  surrounded  me  —  almost  lifting  me 
90 


from  ^e  ground;  and  occasionally  I  succeeded  in 
catching  one  and  sticking  it  on  my  forehead,  till  I 
had  quite  a  cluster,  so  close  together  that  I  must 
have  looked  like  a  cyclops,  with  one  fiery  eye  in  the 
middle  of  my  forehead. 

We  came  into  the  fields  where  the  daisies  and 
poppies  were  sleeping  together,  and  passing  through 
still  another  field,  we  arrived  at  the  place  where  the 
Damlaly  Pasha  lived.  Then  I  knew  that  the  open 
ing  in  the  wall  and  the  goddess  inside  had  invited  me 
to  call  on  them  that  night. 

Climbing  over  the  opening  was  not  an  easy  task; 
for  my  bedroom  slippers  were  soft,  and  the  stones  of 
the  tumble-down  wall  were  hard  and  sharp.  But 
I  accomplished  it.  As  for  the  fireflies,  they  had  no 
difficulty;  they  flew  over  the  wall  as  if  it  were  not 
there  at  all. 

Inside,  the  sense  of  real  exploration  came  over  me. 
The  garden  was  old-fashioned,  where  the  flowers 
grew  helter-skelter,  as  they  generally  do  in  Turkish 
gardens.  How  delicious  was  the  perfume  of  the 
flowers.  I  felt  sure  that,  like  me  and  the  fireflies  and 
the  frogs  and  the  nightingales,  the  flowers  here  were 
awake  —  and  not  like  the  daisies  and  poppies,  who 
are  sleepy-heads.  But  in  vain  did  I  look  for  my  god 
dess.  She  was  not  there. 

Presently  another  little  form  came  moving  along 


through  the  bushes.  We  met  in  the  shrubbery.  I 
pushed  aside  the  branches,  put  my  face  through,  and 
in  Turkish  I  said:  — 

"Hullo,  Sitanthy!" 

"  Hullo ! "  she  answered.  "  What  did  you  call  me?  " 

"  Sitanthy, "  I  replied.  "  That 's  your  name.  I  gave 
it  to  you.  It  is  the  blue  flower  in  the  wheat  —  be 
cause  you  look  like  one  of  them. " 

"That's  pretty,"  Sitanthy  commented.  "And 
what  is  your  name?  " 

I  told  her. 

"I  know  who  you  are,"  she  went  on.  "You  are 
the  solitary  child  who  lives  on  the  road  to  the  land 
ing,  and  who  never  plays." 

"I  do  play!"  I  cried. 

"How  can  you?  You  are  always  sitting  still." 

"  I  play  most  when  I  am  most  still. " 

"Yours  must  be  a  funny  game,"  she  observed; 
"for  when  /  sit  still,  I  go  to  sleep." 

Across  the  bushes  we  leaned  and  kissed  each  other. 
With  her  fingers  Sitanthy  took  hold  of  my  cheeks 
and  told  me  that  she  loved  me. 

"  I  have  loved  you  ever  since  we  came  to  live  here, " 
I  said,  "because  you  are  so  pretty." 

"Are  you  pretty?"  she  inquired  politely.  "You 
have  the  largest  eyes  of  any  one  in  the  world. " 

"They  are  not  really  so  large,"  I  corrected  her. 
92 


''They  only  look  so,  because  my  face  is  little.  I 
know  it  for  a  fact,  because  one  day  I  measured  with 
a  thread  those  of  my  father,  and  they  were  every  bit 
as  large  as  mine." 

We  linked  arms  and  walked  about  the  garden. 
She  still  wore  her  ridiculous  trousers. 

"Did  n't  they  put  you  to  bed?"  I  asked. 

"No.  I  did  n't  want  to  go,  —  and  I  don't  go  un 
less  I  want  to." 

I  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  "And  do  the  elders 
let  you?" 

She  nodded. 

"They  put  me  to  bed  every  night  —  at  the  same 
hour, "  I  confided,  with  great  pity  for  myself. 

She  put  her  arm  around  me  and  kissed  me,  and 
though  she  said  nothing  I  knew  that  she  felt  the 
tragedy  of  this. 

We  plucked  dew-soaked  flowers  together,  talking 
all  the  time  of  those  things  which  belong  to  childhood 
alone;  for  children  are  nearer  to  the  world  from  which 
they  have  come,  and  when  they  meet  they  naturally 
talk  of  the  things  they  remember,  and  which  the 
elders  have  forgotten  —  and  because  they  have  for 
gotten,  call  unreal. 

We  caught  some  fireflies  for  her  forehead,  too,  and 
thus  we  were  two  cyclopses  instead  of  one.  I  had  to 
tell  Sitanthy  about  them;  for  she,  being  a  Turkish 

93 


child,  knew  nothing  of  them.  Then  I  inquired  about 
the  goddess  of  the  garden;  but  Sitanthy  only  said 
that  there  was  no  young  woman  in  their  house  ex 
cept  their  halafa, 

When  I  was  ready  to  go,  she  let  me  out  of  the  gate, 
and  I  started  back  to  my  home.  I  was  a  little  cold. 
A  heavy  dew  was  falling,  and  my  "nighty"  was  wet, 
and  so  was  the  flimsy  pink  wrapper.  As  for  my 
slippers,  they  became  so  soaked  through  that  I  dis 
carded  them  in  one  of  the  fields. 

I  meant  to  return  to  my  bed  as  quietly  as  I  had 
come  out,  but  on  reaching  our  garden  I  knew  that 
my  escape  had  been  discovered.  A  light  was  burning 
in  my  bedroom,  and  other  lights  were  moving  to  and 
fro  in  the  house,  and  there  were  lanterns  in  the 
garden. 

I  walked  up  to  the  nearest  lantern.  Happily  it  was 
in  the  hands  of  my  father.  To  scare  him  I  imitated 
the  croak  of  a  frog. 

"  Oh,  baby ! "  he  cried.  "  Oh,  baby,  where  have  you 
been?" 

I  confided  my  whole  adventure  to  him,  because 
of  all  the  elders  I  have  known  —  except  my  brother, 
who  was  one  of  the  immortals  of  Olympus  —  my 
father  seemed,  if  not  to  remember,  at  least  to  under 
stand. 

That  night  I  was  not  scolded.    The  wet  clothes 

94 


were  replaced  by  warm  ones,  and  I  was  only  made 
to  drink  a  disagreeable  tisane.  And  since,  in  spite  of 
the  tisane,  I  did  catch  cold  and  for  two  days  was 
feverish,  I  escaped  even  a  remonstrance. 

Yet  my  escapade  had  one  lasting  good  result.  It 
led  to  my  friendship  with  Sitanthy  —  and  finally 
to  the  goddess  of  the  garden. 

On  the  following  Friday,  although  I  was  still  not 
quite  well,  I  begged  to  be  permitted  to  sit  by  the 
window.  The  trio  for  whom  I  was  waiting  came,  but 
sooner  than  their  customary  hour.  From  afar  Sitan 
thy  waved  her  little  hand  to  me.  Then,  instead  of 
passing  by,  as  usual,  all  three  came  up  to  our  house, 
and  the  old  general  ceremoniously  delivered  a  letter 
addressed  to  my  father  —  who  at  once  came  out, 
and  accompanied  them  to  the  gate.  When  my  father 
returned,  he  said  that  on  her  way  back  the  little  girl 
was  to  stay  and  play  with  me. 

On  this  first  visit,  Sitanthy  told  me  her  history. 
She  was  the  only  child  of  the  only  son  of  the  old 
general  and  his  hanoum.  Her  father  was  killed  in 
one  of  those  wars,  unrecorded  by  history,  which  the 
sultan  wages  against  his  unruly  subjects  in  remote, 
unmapped  corners  of  Asia.  But  if  these  wars  are  not 
recorded  by  history,  their  record  is  written  with 
indelible  ink  in  the  hearts  of  the  Turkish  women; 
for  every  one  means  the  loss  of  brothers,  fathers, 

95 


husbands,  and  sons,  whose  deaths  are  reported,  if  at 
all,  long  after  they  have  been  laid  away  in  unknown 
graves. 

Sitanthy's  mother  died  from  a  broken  heart,  and 
thus  my  little  friend  was  all  that  remained  to  the 
old  couple. 

"I  wear  these  trousers,"  she  explained,  "to  afford 
pleasure  to  my  grandparents.  You  see  I'm  only 
a  girl,  and  it  must  break  their  hearts  to  have  a  boy- 
less  home,  so  I  saved  all  my  pennies  and  bought  these 
trousers  to  give  the  household  an  air  of  possessing  a 
boy." 

I  hugged  her,  and  never  again  thought  of  her 
trousers  as  ridiculous. 

In  the  simple  way  Turkish  children  have,  she  also 
told  me  the  affairs  of  her  home.  The  household  con 
sisted  of  her  grandfather,  her  grandmother,  the  old 
eunuch,  a  cook  older  than  the  eunuch,  and  a  young 
slave  —  the  halafc. 

A  halaic  is  a  slave  who  is  plain,  and  consequently 
cannot  be  given  in  marriage  to  a  rich  husband;  nor 
is  she  clever  enough  to  become  a  teacher;  nor  does 
she  possess  that  grace  and  suppleness  which  might 
make  of  her  a  dancing-girl.  Having  thus  neither 
mental  nor  physical  attributes,  she  becomes  a  menial. 

She  does  all  the  coarsest  work;  and  after  seven 
years  of  servitude,  if  she  belongs  to  a  generous  master, 
96 


she  is  either  freed,  with  a  minimum  dowry  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  or  is  given  in  marriage, 
with  a  larger  dowry,  to  one  of  the  menservants  in 
the  retinue  of  the  household. 

It  is  said  that  sometimes,  if  her  master  be  either 
poor  or  cruel,  he  sells  her  before  her  time  expires, 
and  thus  she  passes  from  house  to  house  —  a  beast 
of  burden,  because  Allah  has  given  her  neither 
cleverness,  nor  bodily  beauty,  nor  grace;  and  men 
cheat  her  of  her  freedom  and  youth. 

Thus,  knowing  exactly  what  a  halaic  was,  I  laughed 
at  Sitanthy  when,  in  answer  to  my  question  about 
the  goddess  of  her  garden,  she  replied:  "It  must  be 
our  halaic  —  she  is  the  only  young  woman  in  our 
household. " 

After  I  was  entirely  well  again,  I  was  permitted 
to  go  with  Sitanthy  to  play  in  her  garden.  I  went 
with  great  expectations,  for  I  hoped  that  by  daylight 
and  with  all  the  afternoon  before  me,  I  could  find 
out  something  about  my  goddess. 

On  entering  the  garden,  the  first  person  I  en 
countered  was  she,  —  and  what  I  saw  stabbed  my 
heart.  My  goddess  was  harnessed  to  the  old-fash 
ioned  wooden  water-wheel  at  the  well,  and  with 
eyes  shut  was  walking  around  and  around,  drawing 
up  water. 

We  had  a  similar  arrangement  in  our  own  garden, 

97 


but  it  was  a  blindfolded  donkey  who  did  the  work 

—  not  a  goddess. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  loose,  many-colored  bright 
garment,  held  in  at  the  waist  by  a  wide  brass  belt. 
A  yellow  veil  was  thrown  over  her  head;  her  bare 
arms  were  crossed  on  her  breast;  and  bathed  in  the 
light  of  that  summer  day,  with  eyes  closed,  she  was 
doing  this  dreadful  work,  without  apparent  shame, 
without  mortification. 

On  the  contrary,  she  seemed  unaware  of  the  de 
gradation  of  her  work.  She  could  not  have  looked 
more  majestic  or  more  beautiful  had  she  been  a  queen 
in  the  act  of  receiving  a  foreign  ambassador.  But  I, 
who  loved  her  and  called  her  my  goddess,  felt  her 
shame,  and  tears  of  rage  sprang  to  my  eyes. 

Saturated  as  I  was  with  Greek  mythology,  there 
came  to  my  mind  the  thought  of  Danae,  daughter 
of  Acrisius,  King  of  Argos,  and  mother  of  Perseus. 
Because  she  refused  to  listen  to  the  love- words  of  the 
king  who  received  her,  after  her  father  exiled  her, 
she  was  condemned  to  similar  work. 

A  great  excitement  seized  me.  I  thought  that  the 
story  I  had  read  did  not  belong  to  the  past  —  that 
it  was  being  enacted  in  that  very  place  —  at  that 
very  hour  —  and  before  my  own  eyes.  Nay,  more ! 
I  was  a  Greek  runner,  ordered  by  the  gods  of  Olympus 
to  announce  to  her  the  return  of  her  son. 
98 


Possessed  by  the  conviction,  I  rushed  up  to  her, 
and  stopped  her  in  her  work. 

"Hail  to  thee,  Danae!"  I  cried.  "Perseus,  your 
son,  is  coming,  bringing  the  head  of  Medusa,  and 
with  it  he  will  turn  into  stone  those  who  are  ill- 
treating  you. " 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed  at  me  with  a 
puzzled  expression. 

I  repeated  my  words,  my  enthusiasm  a  trifle  damp 
ened  by  her  reception  of  them.  When  I  had  explained 
everything  to  her,  and  had  given  her  every  detail 
of  Danae's  life  and  her  son's  achievements,  a  smile 
broke  over  her  face.  Of  all  our  visible  signs,  the  soul 
comes  nearest  to  speaking  in  the  smile.  When  the 
halaic  smiled,  it  was  as  if  God  were  peeping  through 
the  clouds. 

"You  adorable  baby!  You  adorable  Greek  baby!" 
she  laughed. 

She  unharnessed  herself,  and  took  me  in  her  arms, 
and  she  held  me  there  as  a  nest  must  hold  a  little 
bird.  How  "comfy,"  how  motherly  her  arms  were. 
She  sat  down  on  a  stump  and  cuddled  me  in  her  lap; 
and  I,  pushing  aside  her  dress  at  the  throat,  kissed 
her  where  she  was  the  prettiest. 

"Why  are  you  a  halaic?  "  I  moaned.  "Why  do 
you  have  to  be  a  donkey  —  you  who  are  beautiful 
as  a  Greek  nymph?" 

99 


Her  face  softened,  her  eyes  became  misty,  and  her 
lips  quivered,  yet  remained  wreathed  in  smiles. 
Silently  she  patted  me,  and  I  spoke  again  of  the 
cruelty  of  her  position. 

"Well,^well,  yavroum,  you  see  the  old  people  are 
very  poor.  They  have  no  money  this  month  to 
engage  a  donkey,  and  the  men  on  this  place  are  too 
old  for  such  hard  work.  I  am  young  and  strong,  so 
I  do  it." 

"But  why  are  you  a  halaic  ?  "  I  repeated. 

She  laughed.  "  I  am  not  exactly  a  halaic,  for  I  am 
a  free  woman.  I  may  go  if  I  please  —  only  I  please 
to  stay.  The  old  hanoum  brought  me  up.  I  love  her. 
She  is  old  and  poor.  She  needs  me,  and  I  stay." 

Just  then  Sitanthy  came  out  of  the  house,  and 
claimed  a  part  of  the  lap  which  I  was  occupying,  and 
there  we  both  sat  for  a  while.  But  the  halaic  had 
much  to  do,  and  presently  we  were  sent  off  to  play. 

I  questioned  Sitanthy  about  her. 

"  She  will  pine  away  some  day  and  die,"  Sitanthy 
said. 

My  eyes  grew  larger.  "Never!"  I  cried.  "She  is 
immortal." 

Sitanthy  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  yes,  she  will;  for 
her  ailment  is  incurable.  Her  heart  is  buried  in  a 
grave." 

In  vain  I  implored  for  more  explanations.  With 
100 


maddening  precision  Sitanthy  reiterated  the  same 
words.  She  had  heard  her  grandmother  say  this,  and 
being  a  child  of  her  race,  she  accepted  it  as  final.  Her 
mind  received  without  stimulating  her  imagination. 
But  I  was  a  Greek  child,  with  a  mind  as  alert,  an 
imagination  as  fertile  as  hers  were  placid  and  apa 
thetic. 

The  halaic  became  the  heroine  of  my  day-dreams. 
There  was  not  a  tale  which  my  brain  remembered 
or  concocted  in  which  she  did  not  figure.  My  soul 
thirsted  for  knowledge  of  her  affairs.  They  beckoned 
to  me  as  forcibly  as  had  the  tumble-down  wall,  and 
I  meant  some  day  to  penetrate  her  secrets. 

She  had  said  that  the  old  hanoum  had  brought  her 
up,  and  that  the  old  hanoum  was  very  poor.  That 
was  one  more  reason  why  she  should  have  been  given 
a  great  marriage.  Any  rich  Turk  would  have  been 
willing  to  pay  a  fortune  for  such  as  she.  In  the  East 
we  talk  of  these  things  openly,  as  common  occur 
rences;  and  since  my  intimacy  with  Djimlah  I  un 
consciously  had  learned  a  great  deal  about  Turkish 
customs. 

The  affairs  of  the  halaic  quite  absorbed  me.  I 
watched  her  carefully.  She  never  looked  sad,  or 
even  tired.  She  performed  her  menial  duties  as  if 
they  were  pleasant  tasks,  like  arranging  flowers  in 
vases.  She  did  everything,  from  being  the  donkey 

101 


of  the  well,  to  beating  the  rugs,  washing  the  linen, 
and  scrubbing  the  floors. 

In  the  early  fall,  toward  sunset,  one  day,  I  met  her 
for  the  first  time  outside  the  garden  wall.  I  was 
being  taken  home  to  supper,  and  she  was  mounting 
a  hill  leading  to  the  forest  of  Belgrade.  She  passed 
me  without  seeing  me,  her  eyes  on  the  horizon,  a 
mysterious  smile  on  her  lips.  My  heart  leaped  at  the 
radiance  of  her  appearance.  She  was  like  the  em 
bodiment  of  all  the  Greek  heroines  of  myth  and 
history.  The  wondrous  expression  on  her  face  so 
moved  me  that  I  had  to  sit  down  to  keep  my  heart 
from  leaping  from  my  breast. 

"Come  now,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  elder,  who 
was  with  me,  "you  know  you  are  already  late  for 
your  supper." 

On  any  other  occasion  I  should  have  kicked  my 
governess,  but  the  face  of  the  halaic  had  sobered  me. 
Obediently  I  walked  home,  but  I  did  not  eat  much 
supper. 

The  next  time  I  saw  Sitanthy  I  told  her  of  my 
meeting  with  the  halaic. 

Sitanthy  nodded.  "She  was  going  to  her  hour  of 
happiness.  She  lives  for  that  hour.  She  has  it  from 
time  to  time." 

In  vain  I  begged  for  more  particulars.  Sitanthy 
was  the  most  Asiatic  of  all  the  Turkish  children  I 

102 


have  known.  She  could  tell  me  stories  of  her  world; 
but  her  world  appeared  to  her  as  matter-of-fact  and 
unromantic  as  the  world  of  the  elders. 

Whenever  I  saw  the  halaic  she  was  lovely  to  me. 
She  smothered  me  with  kisses,  and  she  scolded  me 
kindly  whenever  I  needed  it,  which  was  pretty  often. 
But  there  was  a  patrician  reserve  about  her  which 
kept  me  from  questioning  her.  She  was  tender,  but 
at  times  cruel.  She  would  laugh  at  things  which 
choked  my  throat  with  a  big  lump.  Damlaly  Pasha's 
household  was  poor.  They  lived  on  his  pension, 
which  was  generally  in  arrears;  for  the  Orientals 
know  no  fixed  time,  and  the  Turkish  Government 
is  the  most  Oriental  factor  in  their  Oriental  lives. 

There  came  days  when  the  exchequer  of  the  house 
hold  was  reduced  to  small  coins,  which  the  hanoum 
kept  tied  in  a  knot  in  one  of  the  corners  of  her  indoor 
veil.  She  always  gave  us  two  cents,  when  I  visited 
there;  and  Sitanthy  and  I  would  call  the  simitzi, 
passing  by  with  his  wares  on  his  head,  and  we  would 
buy  four  of  his  delectable  simit,  big  enough  to  wear 
as  bracelets  —  until  we  had  eaten  them.  Then  came 
afternoons  when  we  were  given  only  one  cent,  and 
each  of  us  had  only  one  simit ;  and  then  there  was  a 
time  when  the  hanoum  had  not  even  a  cent,  and  she 
wept  because  she  could  not  buy  us  simit.  That  was 
the  day  that  the  halaic  was  cruel.  She  laughed  at 

103 


the  sorrow  of  her  mistress,  and  derided  her;  and  the 
old  hanoum  was  so  mortified  that  she  stopped  crying 
at  once. 

It  happened  that  one  day  I  was  taken  suddenly 
ill,  while  playing  with  Sitanthy;  and  the  old  hanoum 
sent  word  to  my  home,  begging  leave  to  keep  me  in 
her  house,  in  order  that  I  should  not  be  moved,  and 
imploring  to  be  trusted.  It  was  the  halaic  who  took 
care  of  me.  She  made  up  two  little  beds,  and  herself 
slept  between  them.  The  old  hanoum  brought  a 
brazier  into  the  room,  filled  with  lighted  charcoal, 
and  on  it  she  heated  olive  oil  in  a  tin  saucer.  When 
it  was  very  hot  they  took  off  my  nightgown,  sprin 
kled  dried  camomiles  all  over  me,  and  the  halaic, 
dipping  her  hands  into  the  scorching  oil,  began  to 
rub  me.  She  rubbed  and  rubbed,  till  I  screamed,  and 
was  limp  as  a  rag.  But  I  fell  into  refreshing  slumber 
immediately  afterwards. 

When  I  awoke,  dripping  with  perspiration,  the 
halaic  was  changing  my  nightgown.  Then  she  put 
me  into  the  other  little  bed,  which  was  warm  and  dry. 
Some  hours  later  I  again  awoke,  and  saw  the  halaic 
moving  about  the  room  on  tiptoe.  She  threw  a  cloak 
over  her  shoulders,  and,  with  the  caution  of  a  cat 
about  to  lap  forbidden  milk,  stole  out  of  the  room. 
I  sat  up  in  my  bed  and  wondered  what  she  was  doing. 
Then  I  arose  and  went  to  the  window.  The  last 
104 


quarter  of  the  moon  lighted  the  garden,  and  dis 
tinctly  I  saw  the  halaic  disappearing  into  a  group  of 
cypresses. 

In  an  instant  I  wrapped  a  shawl  around  me,  and 
went  down  after  her.  When  I  next  caught  sight  of 
her  she  did  not  move  like  a  cat  any  more.  She  held 
in  each  hand  a  lighted  candle,  home-made  and 
aromatic,  and  she  was  going  in  and  out  among  the 
trees,  as  if  she  were  playing  a  game,  and  all  the  time 
mumbling  something  that  seemed  to  be  a  rhyme. 
Then  she  crouched  low  on  the  ground  and  exhorted 
Allah  to  be  merciful  and  forgive  her  -  -  It  was  a 
word  I  did  not  understand,  and  the  next  day  I  had 
forgotten  it. 

After  a  time  she  rose,  put  the  ends  of  the  lighted 
candles  between  her  lips,  went  to  the  well,  and  drew 
water  from  it  with  a  small  tin  cup  tied  to  a  string. 
She  watered  all  the  trees  of  this  clump,  counting  the 
drops  as  they  fell:  "Bir,  iki,  utch,  dort,  besh,  alti, 
yedi."  On  the  seventh  she  always  stopped,  and  went 
on  to  the  next  tree.  She  did  all  the  counting  with 
out  dropping  the  lighted  candles  from  her  mouth  — 
which  was  very  hard;  for  I  tried  it  a  few  days  later. 

After  the  watering  was  ended,  she  blew  out  the 
candles,  fell  prone  on  the  earth,  and  begged  Allah 
the  Powerful,  Allah  the  Almighty,  to  forgive  her. 
She  wailed  and  wept,  and  told  Allah  over  and  over 

105 


that  she  was  doing  everything  according  to  his  bid 
ding,  for  the  sake  of  his  forgiveness.  Hidden  in  the 
shrubbery,  close  by,  I  wondered  what  could  be  the 
crime  of  that  radiant  creature,  who  had  enthralled 
and  captivated  my  imagination. 

At  length  she  rose,  and  danced  a  weird  dance  to 
the  mouse-eaten-looking  moon,  in  turn  beseeching 
her:  — 

"Queen  of  the  Night,  Guardian  of  Womanly 
Secrets,  Mother  of  Silent  Hours  —  intercede  for  me 
—  help  me!" 

She  danced  on  and  on,  till  she  was  quite  worn  out, 
and  fell  on  the  ground  weeping. 

I  could  endure  no  more;  besides,  my  teeth  were 
chattering,  and  all  the  aches  which  were  so  especially 
my  own  took  possession  of  my  frail  body  again.  I 
came  out  of  my  hiding-place  to  where  the  halaw  lay. 
She  looked  up  at  me,  bewildered.  Then  she  rose  on 
her  knees,  and  touched  me  with  her  fingers,  as  if  to 
ascertain  that  I  were  a  living  child.  She  peered  into 
my  face  through  the  tears  in  her  eyes  —  and  I,  quite 
afraid  now,  said  not  a  word. 

At  length  she  broke  the  silence. 

"Is  that  you,  Greek  baby?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"Who  sent  you  here?" 

"Nobody.  I  came." 
1 06 


She  extended  her  palms  upward.  Her  face  took 
on  one  of  her  mystic  smiles. 

"Allah,"  she  said  softly;  "Allah,  thou  forgivest 
me,  the  unworthy. " 

For  a  long  time  she  prayed  to  that  power  whom 
she  called  Allah,  and  I  knew  to  be  God.  When  her 
prayers  were  at  an  end,  she  gathered  me  to  her  heart, 
and  kissed  me  with  love  and  fervent  exaltation;  and 
thus  carried  me  into  the  house.  Again  she  rubbed 
me  with  hot  oil,  and  in  order  to  warm  me  better,  she 
took  me  into  her  bed,  and  I  slept,  held  fast  in  her 
arms. 

The  next  day  I  must  have  been  quite  ill,  and  she 
never  left  me;  for  every  time  I  opened  my  eyes  she 
was  there,  crouching  by  me,  wearing  her  radiant 
smile,  which  would  have  coaxed  any  truant  soul  to 
return  to  earth.  At  any  rate,  it  coaxed  mine,  which 
came  again,  though  reluctantly,  to  inhabit  my  poor 
little  body. 

On  the  first  day  that  I  really  felt  better  and  could 
sit  up,  I  took  advantage  of  her  devoted  attendance 
to  question  her. 

"What  have  you  done  so  monstrous  and  wicked, 
which  Allah  must  forgive  you?" 

After  a  moment's  thought,  she  answered  me, 
simply  and  directly:  - 

"I  gave  not  myself  to  a  man,  as  Allah  ordains 

107 


that  every  woman  should  do,  and  I  have  given  no 
children  to  multiply  the  world." 

For  hours  I  puzzled  over  these  words;  but  in  the 
end  I  did  get  at  their  meaning.  New  vistas,  new 
horizons  opened  to  my  brain.  What  she  meant,  of 
course,  was  that  she  was  not  married. 

In  the  middle  of  that  night  I  awoke  —  and  I  woke 
her,  too.  I  sat  up  in  bed,  determined  to  ask,  till  all 
was  told  to  me. 

"Then,  why  don't  you  marry?"  I  demanded 
peremptorily. 

"Now,  yavroum,  you  go  to  sleep.  You  are  only  a 
baby,  and  you  cannot  understand." 

"I'm  not  a  baby!"  I  cried.  "I  know  heaps  and 
heaps  of  things,  and  if  you  don't  tell  me,  I  shall  not 
go  to  sleep  —  and  what  is  more  I  shall  uncover  myself 
and  catch  my  death  of  cold.  So  please  tell  me  why 
you  don't  marry. " 

"  I  don't  want  to. " 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  he  whose  children  I  should  have  been 
happy  to  bear  is  forever  buried,  beyond  that  hill,  in 
the  forest  of  Belgrade." 

"That  cannot  be,"  I  said  skeptically;  "there  is  no 
cemetery  there. " 

"No,  yavroum,"  she  said  softly,  "but  he  lies  there; 
for  I  buried  him. " 
108 


Through  the  curtainless  windows  the  stars  were 
lending  us  light.  The  face  of  the  halaic  shone  sweet 
and  tender,  full  of  womanly  charm  and  loveliness. 
My  little  hand  slipped  into  hers.  Who  shall  deny 
that  we  have  lived  before,  that  each  little  girl  has 
been  a  woman  before?  Else  why  should  I,  a  mere 
child,  have  understood  this  grown-up  woman;  and 
why  should  she,  a  woman,  have  thus  spoken  to  me? 
There  we  sat,  our  mattresses  on  the  floor,  as  near  to 
each  other  as  possible,  holding  each  other's  hands 
while  the  stars  were  helping  us  to  see  —  and  perhaps 
to  understand. 

"Like  you,  he  was  a  Greek,  and  like  you  he  said 
things  about  nymphs  and  goddesses.  He  said  that 
I  was  one  of  them,  and  he  loved  me.  Some  day  soon 
I  was  to  be  his.  But  in  our  household  then  there  was 
another  man  who  vowed  that  no  infidel  should  pos 
sess  me.  We  were  living  at  the  time  over  the  hill, 
in  the  outskirts  of  the  forest  of  Belgrade.  One  night 
when  the  moon  was  at  its  waning,  like  the  night  you 
saw  me  in  the  garden,  that  man  killed  my  lover. 
I  buried  him  —  myself  —  in  the  forest  of  Belgrade, 
and  have  tended  his  grave  for  these  seven  years.  I 
do  everything  to  please  Allah,  and  I  never  complain. 
To  avert  the  punishment  which  is  allotted  in  the 
other  world  to  the  women  who  have  not  done 
his  will,  I  exhort  him,  according  to  the  prescribed 

109 


magics.  It  is  said  that  if,  during  these  rites,  some 
time,  a  child  should  come,  it  is  Allah  himself  who 
sends  it,  to  show  that  he  understands  and  forgives, 
—  and  you  came,  yavroum,  the  other  night. " 

She  bent  over  and  kissed  me  gratefully. 

"  I  shall  work  all  my  life  for  nothing,  doing  every 
thing  to  help  others,  in  the  hope  that  when  I  die,  I 
shall  be  made  very  young  and  very  beautiful  and 
shall  be  given  to  the  lord,  my  lover.  And  maybe, 
yavroum,"  she  added,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "I  may 
have  a  baby  like  you  —  for  you  are  a  Greek  baby, 
and  he  was  a  Greek. " 

I  cuddled  very  close  to  her  and  kissed  her,  my 
arms  wound  around  her  neck,  and  went  to  sleep. 

After  that  I  no  longer  minded  her  being  a  halaic, 
and  even  at  times  being  the  donkey.  For  wherever 
I  saw  her,  and  in  whatever  occupation,  her  back 
ground  was  always  the  Elysian  fields.  There  she 
walked  in  the  glory  of  her  beauty,  and  in  company 
with  her  Greek  lover. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MISDEEDS 

I  DID  miss  Djimlah  and  Chakende  and  Nashan, 
yet  the  halaic  made  up  for  a  great  deal,  and  what  is 
more,  knowing  now  that  some  day  she  would  go  to 
heaven  and  meet  her  Greek  lover,  I  was  telling  her  the 
Greek  history,  or  rather  that  part  of  the  Greek  history 
when  the  Greeks  were  intermarrying  with  the  gods. 

It  is  a  pity  that  the  world  should  be  so  large,  and 
that  we  should  have  to  go  from  place  to  place,  leav 
ing  behind  those  we  have  learned  to  love.  When  the 
time  arrived  for  me  to  go  back  to  the  island,  I  wept 
copiously.  I  did  so  mind  leaving  behind  Sitanthy 
and  especially  the  halaic.  She,  however,  in  spite  of 
the  sorrow  she  felt  at  bidding  me  good-bye,  kept  on 
saying:  "Think,  yavroum,  you  might  never  have 
come,  and  that  would  have  been  far  worse.  Besides, 
we  must  submit  to  Allah's  will  gladly,  and  not  weep 
and  show  him  our  unwillingness  to  obey. " 

It  is  three  hours  from  the  Bosphorus  to  the  is 
lands,  by  going  from  the  Bosphorus  to  Constanti 
nople,  and  from  Constantinople  to  the  islands.  Tears 
kept  on  coming  to  my  eyes  from  time  to  time,  while 
the  boat  was  steaming  on;  yet  no  sooner  did  I  get  a 
glimpse  of  our  own  island  and  our  own  pine  trees 

in 


than  I  forgot  the  halaic  and  Sitanthy  and  my  sorrow, 
and  in  spite  of  the  people  on  the  boat,  I  burst  forth 
into  a  loud  song  of  joy.  I  never  could  carry  a  tune, 
and  there  was  little  difference  between  my  singing 
and  the  miauling  of  a  cat;  yet  whenever  I  was  par 
ticularly  happy  I  had  to  express  it  by  song,  and 
only  a  peremptory  order  would  stop  me.  And  while  I 
sang,  looking  at  the  island,  I  was  only  thinking  of 
the  three  playmates  I  was  to  see,  and  the  halalc  and 
Sitanthy  were  forgotten,  as  if  they  had  never  existed. 
My  thoughts  were  on  the  three,  and  on  the  pleasure 
they  would  experience  when  they  saw  me  returning 
to  them  —  as,  indeed,  they  did. 

That  year  was  a  memorable  one  in  our  lives,  be 
cause  it  was  the  last  in  which  my  three  playmates 
would  be  permitted  to  go  out  uncovered  and  play 
with  children  of  both  sexes.  They  were  now  nearing 
the  age  in  which  little  Turkish  girls  become  women, 
must  don  the  tchir-chajf  and  yashmak,  hide  them 
selves  from  the  world,  and  prepare  for  their  woman 
hood.  I  was,  of  course,  always  to  continue  seeing 
them  and  visiting  them,  but  they  could  no  longer 
enjoy  the  freedom  they  had  enjoyed  up  to  now  - 
now  that  they  were  to  become  women. 

I  found  all  three  deep  in  the  study  of  foreign 
languages.    In  the  spring  of  that  year  Djimlah's 
grandmother  decided  that  it  would  be  very  good  for 
112 


the  three  Turkish  girls  to  go  twice  a  week  and  spend 
the  morning  at  Nizam,  where  all  the  European  chil 
dren  congregated.  She  wanted  Djimlah  to  see  as 
much  of  the  European  world  as  possible  before  she 
was  secluded.  It  was  thus  that  we  all  four,  accom 
panied  by  our  French  teacher,  went  to  the  pine 
forest  of  Nizam.  We  did  not  like  this  as  much  as 
staying  at  home  and  playing  by  ourselves;  but  the 
old  hanoum  was  quite  insistent,  and  for  the  first 
time  made  us  do  what  she  thought  best. 

It  interfered  greatly  with  my  scheme  of  introduc 
ing  my  companions  into  the  wonders  of  Greek  his 
tory,  because  now  that  I  was  a  little  older  my  mother 
refused  to  let  me  spend  the  nights  with  Djimlah, 
and  since  our  time  was  quite  filled  with  studies,  the 
only  hours  we  had  for  story-telling  were  those  in 
which  we  had  to  mingle  with  other  children. 

However,  it  was  interesting,  and  the  different  ac 
quaintances  we  made  taught  us  a  lot  of  games  we 
should  never  have  thought  of  by  ourselves.  I  cannot 
say  that  we  liked  our  new  acquaintances  particu 
larly;  at  any  rate,  we  did  not  love  any  of  them.  They 
were  mostly  silly,  we  thought,  and  the  English  girls 
were  stiff  and  we  did  not  care  for  the  way  they  spoke 
French.  Besides,  most  of  them  had  large,  protruding 
teeth,  which  we  thought  very  unbecoming  to  girls. 
We  used  to  call  them  "Teeth." 

"3 


It  was  there  in  the  pines  that  we  met  Semmeya 
Hanoum.  She  was  much  older  than  any  of  us,  and 
she  ought  to  have  been  wearing  the  tchir-chaff,  and 
to  have  been  living  in  the  seclusion  of  the  haremlik; 
but  her  people  were  not  orthodox,  and  Semmeya 
had  a  way  of  her  own  of  getting  what  she  wanted 
—  and  what  she  wanted  just  then  was  not  to  be  se 
cluded. 

We  never  quite  made  up  our  minds  about  her. 
We  had  days  when  we  knew  we  did  not  like  her;  for 
we  did  not  consider  her  honorable.  She  would  rather 
cheat  at  games  than  play  fair,  and  she  would  always 
tell  a  fib  to  get  out  of  a  disagreeable  predicament. 
Again  there  were  days  when  we  almost  loved  her, 
for  she  was  very  fascinating. 

That  year  we  were  particularly  unfortunate  in 
doing  things  we  ought  not  to  have  done.  In  many 
of  these  —  until  Semmeya  brought  her  clever  mind 
to  bear  —  we  seemed  hopelessly  entangled ;  for  ex 
ample,  when  we  stole  grapes  from  a  vendor  who  had 
fallen  asleep.  We  did  not  mean  to  steal:  we  only 
thought  of  how  wonderfully  exciting  it  was  to  walk 
up  on  tiptoe,  reach  the  grapes,  get  a  bunch,  and  slip 
away  without  awakening  the  vendor.  Semmeya  and 
Djimlah  and  Chakende  and  I  accomplished  it  suc 
cessfully.  As  Nashan  was  reaching  for  a  bunch  she 
slipped  —  and  the  man  awoke! 


We  did  not  know  what  would  have  happened  to 
us  —  as  we  talked  it  over  afterwards  —  we  thought 
we  should  probably  have  been  taken  to  prison  to 
spend  our  young  lives  there,  without  light  or  air. 
We  were  only  saved  from  that  dreadful  fate  by 
Semmeya's  inventiveness.  Nashan  stood  there  pet 
rified,  staring  at  the  vendor.  Djimlah  hid  her  face 
on  my  shoulder;  I  was  trying  to  hide  behind  Cha- 
kende;  and  Chakende  was  trembling  all  over. 

Semmeya  walked  straight  up  to  the  man  and  said 
to  him  proudly:  — 

"A  vendor  who  has  something  to  sell  must  never 
go  to  sleep.  We  wanted  some  grapes,  and  of  course 
we  had  to  have  them,  and  naturally  we  took  them. 
Now,  how  much  do  we  owe  you,  vendor?" 

The  man  was  entirely  apologetic,  and  begged  to 
be  forgiven.  He  said  since  we  were  four,  it  would 
make  about  an  oka  of  grapes,  and  he  would  let  us 
have  them  for  four  paras.  I  knew  he  was  cheating  us 
in  asking  four  pennies.  By  no  possibility  could  we 
have  taken  an  oka.  Having  paid  him,  we  walked 
away  with  our  heads  high,  but  I  trembled,  and  I 
know  Djimlah  did,  too,  for  her  arm  in  mine  was 
shaking. 

We  spoke  then  of  our  feelings  and  of  the  awful 
thing  that  happened  to  our  hearts  when  the  man 
had  opened  his  eyes. 


Djimlah  wept  at  the  thought  of  being  caught  as 
a  thief.  "Why  did  we  do  it,  yavroum?"  she  kept  on 
wailing  to  me;  "why  did  we  do  it?" 

"I  don't  know  why  we  did  it,"  I  replied;  nor  did 
I  know  then  why  we  kept  on  getting  into  scrapes, 
from  the  consequences  of  which  Semmeya  always 
saved  us.  I  know  now  that  every  bit  of  deviltry  we 
perpetrated  was  at  her  instigation. 

While  we  were  not  conscious  of  her  evil  influence, 
and  were  fully  grateful  to  her  for  saving  us,  yet  we 
always  mistrusted  her;  and  once  in  despair  we  came 
together  and  debated  how  to  tell  her  that  we  did  not 
care  to  have  her  for  a  friend  any  more. 

Nashan  then  gravely  remarked:  "We  must  re 
member  that  without  her  several  times  we  should 
have  been  compelled  to  die." 

This  we  acknowledged  to  be  true,  and  resolved 
still  to  bear  with  her.  Moreover,  Semmeya  was  a 
remarkable  story-teller,  and  on  rainy  days,  when  we 
could  not  play  outdoors,  we  would  congregate  in 
one  house  and  Semmeya  would  hold  us  enthralled 
with  a  fabrication  of  her  imagination.  She  could 
thrill  us  or  make  us  laugh,  at  will,  and  was  the  un 
disputed  queen  of  rainy  days. 

Just  the  same,  we  never  felt  that  she  was  quite  one 
of  us  —  even  I  who  was  much  more  under  her  spell 
than  the  others.  We  came  to  know  that  whenever 
116 


she  wanted  anything  she  was  going  to  get  it,  and  that 
some  one  else  would  pay  for  it. 

"It  is  her  Greek  blood  that  makes  her  so,"  Cha- 
kende  said  one  noon;  then  looked  up  at  me  in  fear; 
but  at  these  words  Djimlah  declared  that  it  was 
time  to  pray,  and  they  all  fell  on  their  knees,  facing 
Mecca.  They  knew  I  would  not  attack  them  while 
they  were  praying,  and  they  made  their  devotions 
long  enough  for  my  anger  to  cool  somewhat. 

The  legend  about  her  Greek  blood  was  that  her 
grandmother  had  been  taken  from  the  island  of 
Cyprus,  when  a  baby,  and  sold  into  a  haremlik. 
Semmeya  told  us  that  only  after  she  was  married  and 
had  children  did  her  grandmother  learn  that  she  was 
a  Greek;  and  then  she  hanged  herself  from  despair. 
Perhaps  this  matter  of  the  Greek  grandmother  helped 
to  make  Semmeya  dear  to  me,  although  now,  as  I 
look  back  upon  it  all,  I  think  it  was  because  instinc 
tively  I  understood  a  little  of  the  curse  of  tempera 
ment,  and  poor  Semmeya  had  a  large  share  of  it. 

The  following  year  Semmeya  was  married,  and 
three  days  before  her  wedding  we  were  invited  to 
see  her  trousseau,  and  to  be  feasted  and  presented 
with  gifts.  We  had  reached  the  age  when  we  began 
to  talk  of  love  and  marriage  in  tones  of  awe,  with  the 
ignorance  of  children,  and  the  half -awakened  knowl- 

117 


edge  of  womanhood.  And  after  we  came  away  from 
her,  we  put  our  heads  together  and  whispered  our 
hope  that  her  husband  would  never  find  out  what  we 
knew  about  her  character. 


CHAPTER  XII 

HOW  I  WAS   SOLD  TO   ST.   GEORGE 

SHORTLY  after  Semmeya's  wedding  an  epidemic  of 
typhoid  fever  swept  over  Constantinople.  Owing  to 
our  unsanitary  drainage  conditions  such  epidemics 
were  not  rare.  All  four  of  us  had  the  fever.  With  me 
it  was  so  acute  and  lasted  so  long  that  the  doctors 
gave  me  up  as  a  sickly  child  who  had  not  the  strength 
to  battle  for  life.  My  lengthy  illness  left  me  alive, 
it  is  true,  but  as  a  fire  leaves  standing  a  structure 
which  it  has  completely  destroyed  within.  Appar 
ently  there  remained  nothing  solid  to  build  on.  The 
doctors  intimated  as  much  when  they  said  I  might 
eat  and  do  what  pleased  me  —  and  went  away. 

To  them  I  was  only  a  hopeless  patient.  I  was 
different  with  my  mother:  she  would  not  give  up  the 
fight.  In  her  despair,  and  when  science  failed  her, 
she  turned  to  what  in  reality  she  always  had  more 
faith  in  —  her  religion;  and  particularly  her  favorite 
saint,  St.  George  of  the  Bells.  Him  she  had  inherited 
from  the  paternal  side  of  her  family,  to  which  he 
had  been  —  shall  I  say  —  the  idol,  for  more  than 
two  hundred  years. 

I  did  not  share  her  predilection.  My  own  pre 
ferred  saint  was  St.  Nicholas,  even  then  when  I  was 


beginning  to  take  pride  in  my  critical  attitude  to 
ward  religion.  Looking  back,  and  raising  the  veil 
from  my  once  ardent  devotion,  I  must  admit  that 
my  partiality  originated  in  a  life-size  ikon,  painted 
by  a  celebrated  Russian,  and  presented  by  the 
Russian  Church  to  the  monastery  of  St.  Nicholas, 
where  I  used  to  go  for  my  devotions.  I  was  only  four 
years  old  when  the  ikon  was  sent,  but  I  fell  an  im 
mediate  victim  to  its  beauty.  Had  it  represented  St. 
Gregory  or  St.  Aloysius,  my  devotion  would  have 
been  the  same.  It  is  always  thus  with  us:  scratch  a 
Greek  and  you  will  find  a  pagan. 

However,  when  my  mother  told  me  that  she  was 
going  to  send  for  St.  George  of  the  Bells,  I  raised  no 
objection.  I  knew  enough  of  his  deeds  to  have  a 
respectful  fear  of  him.  Among  the  orthodox  Greeks, 
especially  among  those  who,  like  us,  lived  on  the  Sea 
of  Marmora,  to  send  for  a  saint  is  an  awe-  inspiring 
act.  One  does  not  have  recourse  to  it  except  as 
a  last  resort.  It  is,  moreover,  an  expense  that  few 
can  afford,  though  I  have  known  poor  Greek  families 
to  sell  even  their  household  effects  to  have  the  saint 
brought  to  them. 

From  the  moment  that  it  was  decided  the  saint 
should  be  sent  for,  our  house  was  in  a  tumult  of 
cleaning.    My  room  especially  was  made  immacu 
late,  and  I  was  put  into  my  finest  nightgown.   No 
120 


coquette  was  ever  more  carefully  arrayed  for  the 
visit  of  a  handsome  young  doctor  than  I  was  for  the 
saint.  A  large  table,  covered  with  a  new  white  cloth, 
was  placed  near  my  bed.  On  it  was  an  incense- 
burner,  flowers,  and  a  bowl  of  water  —  to  be  blessed, 
and  used  to  bathe  my  face  so  long  as  it  should  last. 

Two  men,  for  their  strength  and  size  called  pal- 
likaria,  had  gone  for  the  ikon.  St.  George  of  the 
Bells,  though  on  the  same  island  with  us,  had  his 
monastery  upon  the  highest  summit  of  the  moun 
tains,  several  miles  from  our  house.  In  order  to 
receive  the  saint  with  proper  ceremony,  my  mother 
sent  for  the  parish  priests.  They  arrived  shortly 
before  the  ikon,  dressed  in  their  most  festive  robes 
of  silver  thread,  and  with  their  long  curls  floating 
over  their  shoulders. 

The  pallikaria  arrived,  bearing  the  saint,  and  pre 
ceded  by  a  monk  from  his  monastery.  When  they 
brought  him  into  my  room,  though  I  was  very  weak, 
I  was  raised  from  my  bed  and  placed  at  the  foot  of 
the  ikon.  It  was  quite  large,  and  painted  on  wood. 
The  face  alone  was  visible:  all  the  rest  had  been 
covered  with  gold  and  silver,  tokens  of  gratitude 
from  those  whom  the  saint  had  cured.  Rings,  ear 
rings,  bracelets,  and  other  jewelry  were  also  hanging 
from  the  ikon,  while  hundreds  of  gold  and  silver  bells 
were  festooned  about  it.  My  room  was  filled  with 

121 


the  members  of  my  family,  and  a  few  of  the  most 
intimate  and  pious  of  our  friends.  Candles  were 
lighted,  and  mass  was  solemnly  sung.  Afterwards 
all  went  away,  and  I  was  left  to  the  care  of  St.  George 
of  the  Bells. 

Owing  to  the  distance,  the  ikon  and  the  monk 
could  not  return  to  the  monastery  the  same  day,  and 
were  to  spend  the  night  in  our  house.  I  was  then 
twelve  years  old,  and  as  I  have  said,  beginning  to 
be  skeptical  of  the  religious  superstitions  about  me. 
Yet  the  ceremony  had  impressed  me  deeply;  and  in 
the  solemn  hours  of  the  night,  with  only  the  light 
of  the  kandilla  burning  before  the  ikon,  a  certain 
mysticism  took  possession  of  me.  I  was  shaken  out 
of  my  apathy,  and  believed  that  St.  George  could 
save  me,  if  he  wanted  to,  and  if  I  prayed  to  him ; 
and  pray  I  did,  too,  most  fervently,  though  I  should 
have  been  ashamed  to  confess  it  after  the  daylight 
brought  back  to  me  my  juvenile  pride  in  being  a 
skeptic. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  pallikaria  came  to  fetch 
the  ikon,  one  of  the  powerfully  built  creatures,  a 
man  whose  hair  was  already  growing  white  about  the 
temples,  approached  my  bedside  and  said  with  great 
solemnity  :  — 

"Kyria,  mou,  he  means  to  cure  you.  I  have  not 
carried  him  for  twenty  years  without  learning  his 
122 


ways.  Why,  when  we  went  to  take  him  from  his 
place,  he  fairly  flew  to  our  arms.  I  know  what  that 
means.  You  will  get  well,  for  he  wanted  to  come  to 
you.  Sometimes  he  is  so  heavy  that  we  can  hardly 
carry  him  a  mile  an  hour  —  and  I  have  known  him 
to  refuse  to  be  moved  at  all. " 

The  old  pallikari  was  right.  St.  George  did  cure 
me.  In  a  few  months  I  was  stronger  than  I  had  ever 
been  in  my  life.  It  was  then  that  my  mother  — 
partly  out  of  gratitude,  partly  in  order  that  he  might 
continue  to  look  after  me  —  resolved  to  sell  me  to 
St.  George. 

For  three  days  she  and  I  fasted.  Early  on  the  morn 
ing  of  the  fourth  day  we  started,  barefooted,  for  the 
mountains  and  St.  George's  monastery,  carrying  wax 
torches  nearly  as  tall  as  I.  At  first  I  was  ashamed  to 
meet  people  in  my  bare  feet,  until  I  noticed  with 
elation  that  they  all  reverently  uncovered  their  heads 
as  we  passed.  It  was  a  long,  weary  walk.  Up  the 
mountains  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  climbing  to 
heaven.  The  road  zigzagged  steeply  upward,  now 
revealing,  now  hiding,  the  monastery  from  our  eyes. 
At  last  we  reached  the  huge  rocks  that  surrounded 
it  like  a  rampart. 

Everything  was  ready  for  our  arrival.  The  hegou- 
menos,  the  head  monk,  received  us.  I  was  taken  to 
a  little  shrine,  bathed  in  holy  water,  and  put  to  bed, 

123 


after  receiving  some  maigre  soup;  for  I  was  to  fast 
three  days  longer.  My  little  bed  was  made  up  on 
the  marble  floor  of  the  church.  At  night,  another 
was  arranged  beside  it  for  my  mother,  since  I  could 
not  be  induced  to  sleep  alone  in  the  church. 

During  the  three  days  spent  in  the  mountains  I 
forgot  completely  that  I  was  a  person  holding  ad 
vanced  ideas,  and  that  I  did  not  believe  in  super 
stitions.  There  was  something  in  the  atmosphere 
of  the  place  which  forbade  analysis  and  called  only 
for  devotion. 

My  mother  and  I  were  the  only  persons  who  slept 
in  the  church.  There  were  a  number  of  insane  pa 
tients  in  the  monastery  itself.  St.  George  of  the  Bells 
is  renowned  for  the  number  of  cures  of  insanity 
which  he  effects.  The  head  monk,  as  a  rule,  is  a 
man  of  considerable  education  and  shrewdness,  with 
no  mean  knowledge  of  medicine.  The  insane  patients 
are  under  his  care  for  forty  days,  with  the  grace  of 
St.  George.  They  practically  live  out  of  doors,  take 
cold  baths,  dress  lightly,  and  eat  food  of  the  simplest. 
In  addition  to  this  they  receive  mystic  shocks  to 
help  on  their  recovery,  and,  I  believe,  usually  re 
gain  their  mental  equilibrium. 

While  I  was  staying  at  the  monastery  a  young  man 
was  brought  there  from  Greece.  He  was  a  great 
student  of  literature,  and  very  dissipated.  The  two 
124 


combined  had  sent  him  to  St.  George.  He  was  a 
handsome  fellow,  with  long  white  hands,  and  a  girlish 
mouth.  He  was  permitted  to  go  about  free,  and  I 
met  him  under  the  arcade  of  the  monastery,  declaim 
ing  a  passage  from  Homer.  When  his  eyes  met  mine, 
he  stopped  and  addressed  me. 

"  I  am  coming  from  Persia,  and  my  land  is  Ithaca. 
I  am  Ulysses,  the  King  of  Ithaca."  Then  he  threw 
out  his  hands  toward  me  and  screamed,  "Penelope!" 

You  may  imagine  that  I  was  frightened,  but  be 
fore  I  had  time  to  answer,  he  burst  into  a  peal  of 
laughter,  and  exclaimed :  — 

"Why,  you  are  Achilles,  dressed  in  girl's  clothes. 
But  you  will  come  with  us  to  fight,  will  you  not?" 

Much  to  my  relief  a  monk  came  up  and  said, 
"Don't  stay  here  and  listen  to  him.  It  only  excites 
him." 

I  became  quite  interested  in  the  young  man,  after 
this,  and  later  learned  that  when  his  forty  days 
were  at  an  end,  by  a  sign  St.  George  intimated  that 
he  was  to  remain  longer;  and  a  few  months  later 
the  young  man  returned  to  his  country  entirely 
cured. 

There  was  one  of  the  monks,  Father  Arsenius,  who 
was  as  devout  as  my  mother.  To  him  I  really  owe 
all  my  pleasure  while  in  the  monastery.  He  was  an 
old  man,  but  strong  and  active.  He  took  me  every 

125 


day  for  rambles  about  the  mountains,  and  never 
would  let  me  walk  uphill.  He  would  pick  me  up  and 
set  me  on  his  shoulder,  as  if  I  were  a  pitcher  of  water, 
and  then,  chanting  his  Gregorian  chants,  we  would 
make  the  ascents. 

One  day  we  were  sitting  on  one  of  the  big  rocks 
surrounding  the  monastery.  Miles  below  we  could 
see  the  blue  waters  of  the  Marmora,  and  far  beyond 
it  the  Asiatic  coast  of  Turkey.  The  air  was  filled 
with  the  smell  of  the  pine  forest  below.  Father 
Arsenius  had  been  telling  me  of  the  miracles  per 
formed  by  St.  George. 

"It  is  curious,  Father  Arsenius,"  I  commented, 
"  that  they  should  have  built  the  monastery  so  high 
up.  It  is  so  difficult  to  get  to,  especially  when  one 
comes  on  foot,  the  way  we  did.  How  did  they  think 
of  building  it  up  here?" 

"No  one  thought  of  it.  The  saint  himself  chose 
this  spot.  Don't  you  know  about  it,  little  one?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

Father  Arsenius's  face  changed,  and  there  came 
into  it  the  light  which  made  him  look  almost  holy. 
In  a  rapt  tone  he  began:  "It  was  years  ago,  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  when  a  dream  came  to  one  of  our 
monks,  a  holy  man,  chosen  by  the  saint  to  do  his 
bidding." 

He  crossed  himself  three  times,  raised  his  eyes  to 
126 


the  blue  above,  and  for  some  seconds  was  lost  in  his 
dreams. 

"The  saint  appeared  to  our  holy  monk  and  said: 
'Arise  and  follow  me,  by  the  sound  of  a  bell,  over 
land  and  sea,  till  the  bell  shall  cease  to  ring.  There 
dig  in  the  earth  till  you  find  my  ikon;  and  on  that 
spot  build  a  chapel,  and  spend  your  life  in  worshiping 
me.' 

"Three  times  the  vision  came  to  the  monk;  then 
he  arose,  went  to  his  superior,  and  with  his  permission 
started  on  his  pilgrimage.  As  soon  as  he  left  the 
monastery  he  heard  the  sound  of  the  bell,  and  fol 
lowing  it  he  traveled  for  months,  over  land  and  sea, 
until  he  came  to  this  island.  Here  the  sound  of  the 
bell  became  louder,  until  finally  it  stopped.  On  that 
spot  he  began  to  dig  —  " 

"On  what  spot?"  I  interrupted. 

"Down  by  the  little  chapel,  where  now  the  holy 
spring  oozes  forth.  There  the  monk  found  the  ikon, 
and  with  it  in  his  arms  went  about  begging  for  money 
to  build  the  chapel. " 

"He  must  have  been  a  very  powerful  man  if  he 
carried  that  ikon  about,"  I  commented,  "for  now 
it  takes  two  pallikaria  to  lift  it. " 

Father  Arsenius  smiled  his  kind,  fatherly  smile. 
"  My  little  one,  when  our  saint  wants  to,  he  can  make 
himself  as  light  as  a  feather.  After  the  monk  had 

127 


collected  sufficient  money  he  went  to  the  Turkish 
authorities  and  asked  permission  to  build  his  chapel. 
The  Turks  had  just  conquered  Constantinople,  and 
we  had  to  ask  permission  for  everything  at  that  time. 
The  pasha  to  whom  the  monk  applied  refused  him, 
saying  that  there  were  already  churches  enough. " 

Father  Arsenius's  face,  as  he  spoke,  was  no  longer 
holy.  He  looked  a  Greek,  boiling  for  a  fight.  Grad 
ually  his  features  regained  their  calm,  and  he  smiled 
at  me,  as  he  continued :  — 

"That  night  St.  George  came  to  the  monk  in  his 
dreams  and  bade  him  start  building  without  per 
mission  of  the  Turks.  In  the  morning  the  monk 
climbed  the  mountain  and  with  the  help  of  two  other 
monks  began  his  work.  Ah !  but  I  should  like  to  have 
been  that  monk,"  Father  Arsenius  cried;  but  he 
would  not  permit  his  soul  even  the  envy  of  a  holy 
deed,  and  humbly  added:  "Thy  will  be  done,  saint." 

"Did  n't  the  Turks  interfere  any  more?"  I  asked. 

"So  they  did,  my  little  one.  While  the  work  was 
in  progress  they  heard  of  it,  and  sent  word  to  the 
monk  to  stop  it.  He  replied  that  he  obeyed  higher 
orders  than  theirs.  The  pasha  was  furious,  and  set 
out  himself  to  the  island,  swearing  he  would  hang  the 
monk  from  his  own  scaffolding. 

"But  he  reckoned  without  St.  George.    At  that 
time  there  were  no  roads  on  the  island,  not  even  a 
128 


path  leading  up  here.  The  pasha  and  his  followers 
became  lost  in  the  woods,  and  had  to  spend  the  night, 
hungry  and  thirsty,  under  the  pine  trees.  In  the 
middle  of  the  night  the  pasha  woke  up,  struggling 
in  the  grip  of  St.  George.  He  cried  out  to  his  com 
panions.  They  were  tied  to  the  trees.  St.  George 
beat  the  pasha  with  the  flat  of  his  sword  until  he  was 
tired.  Then  he  commanded  him  to  fall  on  his  knees 
and  promise  to  permit  the  chapel  to  be  built.  The 
terrified  Turk  did  as  he  was  ordered,  and,  of  his  own 
accord,  promised  to  give  money  to  build  a  large 
monastery,  and  he  kept  his  word." 

Father  Arsenius  looked  at  me  with  a  humorous 
twinkle  in  his  eyes,  and  I  laughed  aloud  to  hear  how 
the  Greek  saint  had  got  the  better  of  the  Turkish 
pasha. 

"I  have  been  here  for  fifty  years  now,"  Father 
Arsenius  went  on  presently;  "and  my  wish  is  to  die 
in  the  service  of  my  saint. " 

"Do  you  think  that  when  I  am  sold  to  him,  he 
will  take  care  of  me?"  I  asked. 

"  I  do  not  think  so  —  I  know  so.  His  power  is 
omnipotent;  and  his  kindness  to  people  is  wonderful. 
When  there  is  any  mortal  disease  among  them,  he 
leaves  here,  goes  out  and  fights  for  them. " 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"Because  I  hear  him  go,  and  come  back." 

129 


I  was  overwhelmed.  No  trace  of  skepticism  or  un 
belief  remained  in  me. 

"Is  he  here  now?"  I  asked,  in  the  same  mystic 
tone  as  the  monk  used. 

He  shook  his  head.  "He  left  here  just  before  the 
cholera  broke  out  in  Constantinople." 

"But  the  cholera  is  over  now." 

"Yes,  I  am  expecting  him  back  at  any  minute." 

"How  do  you  hear  him  come  and  go?"  I  asked, 
unwonted  fear  of  the  supernatural  conquering  me. 

"You  will  hear  him,  too,  if  he  returns  before  you 
go.  Everything  in  the  church  moves  and  shakes 
when  he  leaves  it  or  reenters  it. " 

"But  if  he  should  not  come  back  while  I  am  here, 
how  can  I  be  sold  to  him?" 

"That  does  not  matter,"  Father  Arsenius  reas 
sured  me.  "He  will  know  of  it  when  he  comes  back, 
—  though  I  think  that  sometimes  when  people  are 
not  cured,  it  is  because  he  is  far  away,  and  his  grace 
does  not  reach  them. "  He  bowed  his  head.  "  I  have 
given  my  heart  to  him,  and  he  has  purified  it.  I  am 
his  slave,  and  shall  be  so  for  life." 

"I  shall  be  his  slave,  too,"  I  put  in  eagerly.  Had 
I  been  asked  at  that  moment  to  become  a  nun,  I 
should  have  done  so  gladly,  such  was  the  influence 
Father  Arsenius  had  over  me. 

He  rose.   "  Come,  little  one,  let  us  go. " 
130 


I  put  my  little  hand  into  his  big,  callous  one,  for 
he  was  also  the  gardener  of  the  monastery;  and  to 
gether  we  walked  through  the  koumaries  with  which 
the  mountain  was  covered.  These  are  evergreen 
bushes,  which  at  a  certain  season  bear  fruit  like 
cherries,  which  has  an  intoxicating  effect.  Strangers, 
not  understanding  this,  are  sometimes  found  help 
less  beneath  the  lovely  bushes. 

As  we  came  near  the  monastery,  Father  Arsenius 
shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and  gazed  over  to 
ward  the  mountain-ridge  beyond. 

"  The  wind  is  rising.  It  will  be  very  high  to-night, " 
he  said. 

The  conversation  with  the  monk  had  put  me  into 
a  deep  religious  fervor.  I  fell  asleep,  that  night  in  the 
church,  and  dreamed  of  the  monk  who  had  traveled 
over  land  and  sea,  following  the  sound  of  a  bell. 
How  long  I  slept  I  cannot  tell,  when  I  awoke  in 
terror.  I  sat  up  and  peered  around  by  the  dim  light 
of  the  kandillas  burning  before  the  ikons  of  the  vari 
ous  saints.  The  large  glass  candelabras  hanging  from 
the  ceiling  were  swaying  to  and  fro,  jingling  their 
crystals,  producing  a  ghastly  sound.  The  bells  on 
St.  George's  ikon  were  tinkling;  two  or  three  windows 
slammed,  and  there  was  a  rushing  sound  through  the 
church.  It  all  lasted  only  a  short  time,  and  then 
quietness  returned. 


My  mother  awoke,  though  she  was  not  so  light  a 
sleeper  as  I.  "What  is  it?"  she  asked,  startled. 

"It  is  St.  George  coming  back,"  I  answered. 

We  both  fell  to  praying,  and  I  did  not  sleep  any 
more  that  night.  And  my  heart  was  filled  with  pride 
that  I  had  heard  the  coming  of  the  saint. 

At  the  end  of  my  three  days'  fast,  mass  was  cele 
brated,  and  then  my  mother  presented  me  to  the 
hegoumenos. 

"  I  wish  my  daughter  to  become  the  saint's  slave, " 
she  said. 

"Forever?"  he  asked.  "If  so  she  cannot  marry." 

"No;  until  her  marriage.  Yearly  I  will  pay  the 
saint  a  pigskin  full  of  oil  and  a  torch  as  tall  as  she  is. 
At  her  marriage  I  will  ransom  her  with  five  times 
this,  and  with  five  medjedies  in  addition. " 

The  monk  took  me  in  his  arms  and  raised  me  up 
so  that  I  could  kiss  the  ikon.  Then  he  cried,  in  a 
voice  so  full  of  emotion  that  it  made  my  devout 
mother  weep:  — 

"My  saint,  unto  thee  I  give  the  keeping  of  this 
child!" 

From  the  ikon  he  took  a  silver  chain,  from  which 
hung  a  little  bell,  and  placed  it  around  my  neck. 

"You  are  now  St.  George's  slave,"  he  continued. 
"  Until  you  return  and  hang  this  with  your  own  hands 
on  the  ikon  it  must  never  leave  you. " 

132 


I  kissed  his  hand,  and  the  ceremony  was  over. 
We  paid  what  we  owed,  and  left  the  monastery  and 
good  Father  Arsenius  with  the  assurance  that  a 
power  from  above  was  having  especial  watch  over 
me.  From  that  time  on  my  mother  gave  her  yearly 
tribute,  and  the  saint  kept  his  word  to  look  after  me. 

Although  when  I  was  married  I  was  in  America 
and  my  mother  was  in  Russia,  she  did  not  fail  to 
pay  the  ransom  which  made  it  possible  for  me  to 
change  masters  without  angering  the  saint.  In  place 
of  the  little  silver  chain  and  bell,  which  I  could  not 
return  personally,  she  gave  a  gold  one.  As  I  write, 
I  can  see  the  badge  of  my  former  slavery  where 
it  hangs  around  a  little  old  Byzantine  ikon  in  my 
room.  I  have  never  been  separated  from  it.  During 
the  whole  of  my  girlhood  I  wore  it;  and  when  I  was 
in  a  convent  school  in  Paris  it  gave  me  a  certain  dis 
tinction  among  my  mystified  companions,  who  could 
hear  it  tinkle  whenever  I  moved.  Asked  about  it,  I 
only  said  that  it  was  the  badge  of  my  slavery.  This 
gave  rise  to  a  variety  of  stories,  invented  by  their 
Gallic  imaginations,  in  which  I,  with  my  bell,  was 
the  heroine.  As  I  look  at  it  now,  it  reminds  me  of 
the  three  days  spent  with  St.  George  —  the  three 
days  during  which  sensuous  mysticism  completely 
clouded  my  awakening  intelligence. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  MASTER  OF  THE  FOREST 

ON  our  return  from  the  monastery  we  had  the 
great  joy  of  finding  my  brother  at  home,  back  that 
very  day  from  Europe.  I  was  so  delighted  I  could 
hardly  sit  still.  My  happiness  was  dashed  to  the 
ground  when,  in  the  course  of  the  next  half-hour,  he 
remarked  that  he  must  leave  us  in  a  few  days  to  see 
the  Bishop  of  Xanthy.  I  was  speechless  with  dis 
appointment  until  my  mother  said:  — 

"Oh!  that  is  lucky.  The  little  one  needs  a  radical 
change  to  become  quite  herself  again.  She  can  go 
with  you. " 

Thus  it  was  quickly  settled,  and  a  few  days  later 
we  set  off.  The  first  part  of  the  journey  was  like  any 
other.  We  went  to  Constantinople  and  took  a  train, 
which,  after  due  deliberation,  started,  and  in  due 
time  again  —  or  rather,  not  in  due  time  —  reached 
Koumourtzina.  There  began  what  seemed  to  me 
our  real  journey,  for  we  were  now  to  travel  entirely 
on  animal-back. 

We  started  on  mules,  in  the  afternoon,  and  rode 

for  three  hours  at  a  smart  trot.  In  front  of  us  lay  the 

forest  of  Koumourtzina.  Geography  has  always  been 

a  closed  science  to  me,  so  I  have  no  idea  where  this 

134 


is,. except  that  it  is  somewhere  in  Turkish  territory, 
and  on  the  way  to  Xanthy. 

It  was  near  nightfall.  We  took  a  short  rest  at  a 
small  village,  ate  a  hearty  meal,  exchanged  the  mules 
we  had  been  riding  for  horses,  and  started  out  to 
cross  the  forest.  There  was  silvery  moonlight  over 
all  the  landscape,  and  the  lantern  which  our  guide 
carried,  as  he  walked  in  front  of  the  horses,  blinded  us 
more  than  it  helped  us.  We  asked  to  have  the  light 
put  out,  but  the  kouroudji,  who  was  also  the  owner 
of  the  horses  we  were  riding,  insisted  on  the  lighted 
lantern  as  part  of  the  convention  of  the  forest.  My 
saddle  was  made  of  camel-bags,  filled  with  blan 
kets  and  clothes,  and  the  motion  of  the  horse  was 
smooth  and  soporific.  I  became  drowsy  from  the  long 
day's  ride,  and  now  and  then  stretched  myself  in 
the  saddle. 

In  the  very  heart  of  the  forest  my  horse  reared,  so 
unexpectedly  that  had  it  not  been  for  the  vast 
pillowy  saddle  I  should  have  been  thrown  to  the 
ground.  My  brother's  horse  not  only  reared,  but 
whirled  about  like  a  leaf  in  a  storm.  The  kouroudji 
seized  the  bridle  of  my  horse  and  patted  and  spoke 
to  him,  while  my  brother,  who  was  a  very  good  horse 
man,  managed  to  calm  his  own  mount  somewhat, 
and  to  keep  him  headed  in  the  direction  we  wished 
to  go. 

135 


"What  is  it?"  I  asked  the  kouroudji.  "Why  are 
they  behaving  like  this?" 

The  Turk  turned  to  my  brother.  "The  effendi 
knows?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  do.  They  smell  blood." 

"So  they  do,  Bey  Effendi.  It  is  not  the  first  time 
this  accursed  forest  has  been  the  grave  of  men. 
Allah  keriml" 

He  took  hold  of  the  bridles  of  both  horses,  and 
spoke  to  them  in  endearing  terms.  There  is  an  under 
standing  between  Turks  and  horses  as  touching  as 
the  friendship  between  them  and  dogs.  From  a 
monotonous  and  tedious  journey,  our  ride,  of  a 
sudden,  had  become  most  exciting.  Although  the 
horses  now  followed  the  kouroudji  obediently,  they 
whinnied  from  time  to  time,  and  shivered. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  said  my  brother  to  me; 
"and  whatever  happens  keep  your  head,  and  don't 
scream.  Screaming  will  do  no  good,  and  it  may  lead 
to  mishandling." 

"But  can't  we  go  back,  Mano?"  I  asked. 

"  We  shall  gain  nothing  by  trying  to.  If  a  murder 
has  been  committed,  we  may  come  upon  the  corpse. 
If  it  is  something  else,  we  are  already  in  the  trap." 

Before  I  had  time  to  ask  him  what  he  meant  by 
this,  a  shot  was  fired  over  our  heads,  and,  simul 
taneously,  a  number  of  forms  emerged  from  the 
136 


forest.   We  were  surrounded,  and  several  dark  lan 
terns  flashed  upon  us. 

"Halt!  Hands  up!" 

"All  right!"  said  my  brother. 

Five  men  glided  close  to  us,  and  I  saw  three  pistols 
pointing  at  us.  I  could  now  see  our  captors  dis 
tinctly.  They  had  on  the  Greek  foustanella,  white, 
accordion-plaited  skirts,  stiff-starched,  reaching  to 
the  knees.  Below,  they  wore  gaiters  ending  in  the 
tsarouchia,  or  soft-pointed  shoes.  Their  graceful 
little  jackets  were  worn  like  capes,  with  the  empty 
sleeves  flapping.  The  Greek  fez  with  its  long  black 
tassel  completed  their  picturesque  costume. 

I  do  not  know  whether  Greek  brigands  are  really 
any  better  than  Bulgarian  or  Turkish  ones,  but  the 
sight  of  their  Hellenic  costume  lessened  my  fears 
considerably.  It  sounds  very  silly,  but  my  warm  and 
uncritical  patriotism  embraced  all  Greeks  —  even 
brigands.  Impulsively  I  cried  out:  — 

"  Yassas,  pallikaria!  "  (Health  to  you,  men!) 

The  brigand  next  me,  whose  large  brown  hand  was 
on  the  neck  of  my  horse,  laughed. 

"  Yassu,  keram  mou  "  (Health  to  thee,  my  lady!) 

"What  is  it  all  about,  pallikaria?  "  my  brother 
asked. 

"The  master  of  the  forest,  hearing  of  your  passing 
through,  claims  his  privilege  of  making  you  his  guest 

137 


for  a  while."  The  man  laughed  at  his  own  pleasan 
try.  "Will  you  dismount  of  your  own  accord,  or 
shall  we  lend  you  our  assistance?" 

"Considering  that  you  are  five,  and  we  are  only 
two,  and  a  half  —  "  My  brother  had  a  philosophic 
way  of  accepting  the  inevitable. 

"  We  are  more  than  five, "  remarked  one  of  the  men, 
pointing  behind  him  into  the  forest  with  his  thumb. 

"You  are  plenty,  in  any  case,"  returned  my 
brother,  dismounting.  He  helped  me  from  my  horse. 
In  French  he  said:  "There  is  a  mistake.  It  is  a  long 
time  since  you  and  I  possessed  enough  to  attract 
these  gentlemen;  but  be  polite  and  friendly  to  them. " 

The  brigands  ordered  the  kouroudji  —  who  also 
had  accepted  the  whole  occurrence  with  philosophic 
calm  —  to  proceed  to  Xanthy  and  report  that  his 
charges  were  captured  by  brigands,  who  would 
shortly  communicate  with  their  relatives. 

"Will  he  really  travel  for  two  days,  just  to  carry 
that  message?  "  my  brother  asked  with  curiosity. 

"Crossing  this  forest  is  his  business.  He  knows 
that  if  he  does  not  do  as  we  say,  this  forest  will  be 
come  his  grave. " 

Paying  the  kouroudji,  my  brother  bade  him  good 
bye,  and  two  of  the  brigands  conducted  him  off. 
They  had  told  us  the  truth  when  they  said  there 
were  others  in  the  woods;  for  presently  many  more 
138 


came  up,  and,  with  somewhat  sardonic  humor,  bade 
us  welcome. 

"We  are  sorry  to  have  to  blindfold  you, "  said  one, 
and  took  a  big  red  pocket-handkerchief  from  his 
pocket,  which  he  began  to  fold  on  the  bias,  for  my 
eyes. 

"  Please,  pallikari,  do  you  mind  using  my  handker 
chief  ?"  I  asked. 

"If  it  will  please  you,  kara  mou." 

I  handed  him  my  handkerchief. 

"Ma/  that 's  too  small. " 

"  Can't  you  use  two  together  ?  "  I  asked,  giving  him 
another. 

He  took  them  and  tied  the  ends  together,  then 
slipped  the  bandage  over  my  eyes,  while  another 
held  up  the  lantern  for  him  to  see  by. 

" EmprossI"  (Forward!)  they  said. 

I  felt  a  big  rough  hand  take  mine,  and  we  started 
off  into  the  thick  woods.  We  were  mounting  grad 
ually,  and  the  underbrush  became  thicker.  Pres 
ently  I  tripped  and  fell. 

"  More,  Mitso ! "  my  guide  called  to  some  one  ahead ; 
"come  back  and  make  a  chair  with  me  to  carry  the 
little  girl.  She  is  stumbling." 

The  other  returned;  they  joined  their  hands  to 
gether,  and  I  took  my  seat  on  them,  placing  my  arms 
around  the  men's  necks.  I  was  neither  frightened 

139 


for  the  present,  nor  apprehensive  for  the  future;  I 
was  merely  excited  and  enjoying  the  situation.  My 
love  of  adventure  was  being  gratified  to  the  full, 
and  for  once  the  knowledge  that  we  were  poor  was 
a  satisfaction.  As  my  brother  had  said,  the  days  in 
which  we  had  money  were  so  long  left  behind  that 
even  we  ourselves  had  forgotten  them. 

I  felt  sure  that,  as  soon  as  the  brigands  discovered 
their  mistake,  they  would  let  us  go,  the  customs  of 
the  brigands  being  as  well  known  as  those  of  any 
other  members  of  the  community.  Besides,  had  not 
my  brother  said  it  was  all  a  mistake?  —  and  at  the 
time  my  brother  represented  to  me  the  knowledge 
of  the  world.  I  only  hoped  that  the  brigands  would 
not  realize  it  before  we  reached  their  lair. 

Up,  and  ever  up  we  went,  the  men  surefooted  in 
spite  of  the  underbrush.  They  halted  at  last,  and 
set  me  down. 

One  of  them  whistled.  We  waited  a  full  minute, 
and  he  whistled  again.  Then  one  of  them  sang  in  a 
rich  baritone  the  first  lines  of  the  Greek  national 
hymn:  — 

"Oh!  Freedom!  thou  comest  out  of  the  holy  bones 
of  the  Hellenes  —  oh!  Freedom." 

From  somewhere  in  the  vicinity  another  voice 
took  up  the  refrain,  and  shortly  afterwards  there 
came  a  crash  and  a  rattle  of  chains. 
k  140 


Some  one  took  my  hand  again,  and  I  felt  that  we 
passed  through  an  opening.  Now  we  were  descend 
ing;  and  gradually  the  coolness  of  the  night  air 
changed  to  warmth,  and  the  smell  of  food  came  to 
our  nostrils. 

We  stopped,  and  our  bandages  were  removed.  I 
blinked  and  rubbed  my  eyes.  We  were  in  a  large 
low  room,  the  floor  of  which  was  partially  covered 
with  sheepskins.  A  fire  was  burning,  inside  a  ring 
of  stones,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  which  was  the 
bare  earth,  and  a  man  was  sitting  by  it,  cross-legged, 
cooking. 

"Kali  spera  sas  kai  kalos  orisetel"  (Good-evening 
and  welcome!)  he  said  to  us.  "The  master  will  be 
in  shortly.  Pray  be  seated. " 

We  sat  down  on  some  sheepskins,  and  I  looked 
about  me  with  interest.  The  longer  I  looked  the 
larger  the  room  grew.  Its  shadowy  ends  seemed  to 
stretch  off  indefinitely.  The  ceiling  was  roughly 
vaulted,  and  I  judged  that  it  must  be  a  cave,  of  which 
there  are  many  in  the  mountains.  Numerous  weapons 
lay  on  the  ground  or  hung  on  the  walls,  but  there  was 
nothing  terrifying  about  the  place. 

Very  soon  the  leader  came  in.  He  was  a  man  of 
about  forty,  dressed  in  European  clothes  and  un 
mistakably  a  dandy.  He  was  tall  and  well  built,  and 
his  black  hair  was  parted  in  the  middle,  and  care- 

141 


fully  combed  into  two  large  curly  waves.  His  long 
black  mustache  was  martially  turned  up  at  the  ends. 
He  bowed  to  us  as  if  he  were  a  diplomat,  and  we  his 
distinguished  guests. 

"Welcome  to  our  mountainous  abode.  I  am  very 
glad  to  meet  you. " 

He  shook  hands  with  us  warmly. 

"We,  too,  are  very  glad  to  meet  you,"  said  my 
brother;  "but  I  cannot  understand  why  you  are 
taking  all  this  trouble.  What  we  could  afford  to  give 
you  would  not  keep  you  in  cigarettes  a  week. " 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  Mr.  Spiropoulo?" 

"Good  gracious,  my  dear  sir,"  Mano  cried,  "you 
don't  mean  to  say  you  take  us  for  the  Spiropouli?" 

The  chief  smiled ;  a  most  attractive  smile  it  ap 
peared  to  me,  though  my  brother  afterwards  described 
it  as  fatuous. 

"I  hope  you  did  not  find  the  ascent  too  difficult?" 
the  leader  inquired  solicitously. 

"Two  of  the  pallikaria  made  a  skamnaki  for  me," 
I  put  in.  "It  was  very  nice  of  them." 

I  have  always  spoken  my  mother  tongue  with 
considerable  foreign  accent,  not  having  learned  it 
until  after  I  spoke  French,  German,  and  Turkish, 
and  this  accent  at  once  attracted  the  attention  of 
our  host.  Gravely  he  asked:  — 

"Did  you  acquire  this  French  accent,  mademoi- 
142 


selle,  in  the  short  time  you  have  been  studying  the 
French  language?  Let  me  see,  it  is  three  months 
now  since  you  passed  through  the  forest  before.  That 
was  the  first  time  you  left  Anatolia,  I  believe,  — 
and  one  does  not  acquire  a  French  accent  in  Ana 
tolia." 

From  Mano's  face  I  knew  that  he  was  troubled, 
therefore  I  refrained  from  being  impertinent  in 
answer  to  our  host's  impertinence  about  my  accent. 
The  latter  went  on  lazily:  — 

"We  were  sorry  to  miss  you  before.  We  fully 
intended  offering  you  our  hospitality  then  —  only 
you  changed  your  plans  so  suddenly,  and  arrived  a 
week  before  you  had  intended  to.  I  am  glad  we  were 
fortunate  enough  to  secure  you  this  time.  One  pines 
for  social  intercourse  in  the  mountains. " 

The  leader's  Greek  was  excellent.  It  was  easy  to 
see  that  he  must  have  been  well  born,  or  at  least 
well  educated.  He  stretched  himself  on  a  sheep 
skin  near  us,  and  called  to  the  cook:  — 

"A  whole  one,  boys!"  then,  turning  to  us:  "No 
one  will  be  able  to  say  that  we  did  not  kill  the  fatted 
—  lamb  for  you. " 

The  cook,  squatting  by  the  fire,  rose,  walked  over 
to  an  opening  at  one  side  of  the  cave,  and  called :  — 

"A  whole  one,  Steryio!" 

Returning  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  he  lifted  up 

143 


a  trap  door,  which  disclosed  a  large,  bricked-up 
cavity,  and  began  shoveling  live  coals  and  brands 
into  it  from  the  fire. 

Mano  opened  his  cigarette-case,  and  offered  it  to 
the  chief. 

The  latter  accepted  it,  and  examined  its  contents 
critically. 

"They  are  good,  Mr.  Spiropoulo,"  he  said,  with 
condescension,  "but  I  believe  you  will  find  mine 
better." 

From  his  pocket  he  drew  his  own  case,  and  passed 
it  to  my  brother. 

"Excellent!"  exclaimed  Mano.  "I  know  the 
brand." 

Two  men  came  into  the  room  carrying  a  lamb 
made  ready  for  roasting.  They  held  it  while  a  third 
impaled  it  on  a  long  iron  bar.  Then  the  bar  was 
laid  across  two  iron  projections,  over  the  bed  of 
embers,  and  a  handle  was  fitted  to  the  end  of  the 
bar.  One  of  the  brigands  squatted  down  and  began 
slowly  turning  the  spit,  and  the  others  shoveled  more 
embers  into  the  cavity  underneath  the  lamb.  We 
could  feel  the  heat  even  where  we  sat. 

We  all  watched  with  interest  the  man  rhythmi 
cally  turning  the  lamb  over  the  fire.    Gradually  he 
began  to  hum  a  song  in  time  to  his  turning.  It  was 
one   of   the   folk-songs   about   the   Armateloi   and 
144 


Kief  tai,  those  patriotic  bandits  who  waged  a  guerrilla 
warfare  against  the  Turks  for  years  before  the  revo 
lution  broke  out  in  1821.  It  is  a  period  dear  to  the 
hearts  of  all  Greeks,  for  it  prepared  and  trained  the 
men  who,  during  the  terrible  nine  years  of  the  revo 
lution,  were  to  stand  up  against  and  defeat  the 
enormous  armies  of  Turkey. 

It  is  a  period  unique  in  the  history  of  any  nation, 
a  period  full  of  grandeur  of  individual  achievement, 
and  it  has  been  immortalized  in  Laik  poetry.  I  do 
not  believe  that  there  is  a  Greek  to-day  who  does  not 
know  at  least  some  of  these  long  poems,  composed 
by  the  Armateloi  themselves,  put  to  music  by  them 
selves,  and  transmitted  to  us  by  word  of  mouth, 
from  father  to  son. 

As  the  brigand  at  the  spit  went  on  with  his  song, 
it  was  taken  up  like  an  anthem  by  others,  who  began 
to  swarm  out  of  little  cubby-holes  in  the  sides  of  the 
cave,  which  were  hidden  from  view  by  hanging  sheep 
skins.  They  squatted  around  the  roasting  lamb,  or 
stretched  themselves  on  the  ground,  and  snatched 
at  the  song,  here,  there,  anywhere;  and  the  fumes  of 
the  meat  mingled  with  the  song,  and  the  song  be 
came  part  of  the  meat;  and  all  blended  with  the 
vaulted  room,  and  the  glorious  white  fustanclla 
gleaming  in  the  firelight. 

One  must  be  born  under  an  alien  yoke  to  under- 

145 


stand  what  the  love  of  one's  fatherland  is.  Until  the 
last  year  the  Greeks  may  have  gained  little  in  the 
estimation  of  the  world  since  a  small  portion  of  them 
wrenched  themselves  free  from  the  Turkish  yoke. 
But  those  who  condemn  them  must  remember  that 
since  the  time  of  Alexander  the  Great,  the  Greeks 
have  passed  from  one  conqueror  to  another  —  es 
caping  annihilation  only  by  rendering  their  conquer 
ors  themselves  Greeks  in  literature  and  thought.  At 
last  they  fell  under  the  yoke  of  a  race  which  neither 
could  learn  their  language  nor  cared  for  their  civili 
zation,  and  for  four  hundred  years  they  dwelt  under 
this  Asiatic  dominion. 

On  this  night,  in  the  brigands'  cave,  I  understood 
the  power  Greece  had  over  her  sons.  These  men 
were  nothing  but  cut-throats.  They  would  kill  or 
mutilate  a  man  for  money ;  yet,  as  they  sang  the  songs 
of  those  other,  more  glorious  brigands,  who  had 
striven  for  years  in  desperate  fighting  against  the 
conquerors  of  their  race,  they  seemed  to  be  touched 
by  something  ennobling.  Their  faces  shone  with 
that  light  which  comes  from  the  holiest  of  loves  — 
patriotism.  They  sang  with  fervor,  and  when  they 
came  to  the  parts  relating  victories  over  the  Turks, 
they  clapped  their  hands  and  shouted,  "So!  so/" 

From  one  song  they  passed  to  another,  while  the 
lamb  ever  turned  in  time  to  the  music,  and  men 
146 


brought  chestnuts,  potatoes,  and  onions,  and  roasted 
them  in  the  edge  of  the  smaller  fire  —  always  sing 
ing. 

Of  a  sudden  one  man  broke  into  a  gay  little  song 
of  the  monasteries:  "How  they  rubbed  the  pepper, 
those  devilish  monks!" 

To  the  giddy  words  and  the  infectious  tune,  a 
dozen  men  sprang  to  their  feet.  They  held  out  their 
handkerchiefs  to  each  other,  and  instantly  there  was 
a  garland  of  dancing  brigands  about  the  fire.  It  was 
our  national  dance,  the  Syrto,  and  they  went  through 
it  with  gusto  and  passion. 

By  the  time  that  was  over,  the  lamb  was  cooked. 
We  were  invited  to  sit  round  in  a  circle;  the  meat  was 
torn  apart  with  the  hands,  and  a  piece  dealt  to  each 
person.  Each  brigand  crossed  himself  three  times, 
and  then  fell  to,  ravenously.  I  enjoyed  my  dinner 
as  much  as  they.  My  poor  brother  pretended  to. 
As  I  learned  afterwards,  he  was  afraid  that  the  brig 
ands  would  kill  us  from  mere  annoyance  when  they 
discovered  that  we  were  not  the  rich  pair  they  be 
lieved  they  had  in  their  possession. 

The  'meal  over,  the  brigands  crossed  themselves 
again  devoutly,  and  thanked  God,  and  his  son  Christ, 
for  the  protection  they  had  hitherto  extended  to 
them.  Then  they  began  to  talk  of  their  exploits. 
Far  from  being  conscience-stricken,  or  in  any  way 


ashamed  of  their  profession,  they  gloried  in  it;  and 
being  in  constant  warfare  with  the  Turkish  soldiery, 
they  felt  a  really  patriotic  pride  in  their  manner  of 
life. 

They  told  of  running  a  certain  Turkish  officer 
through  the  heart  without  the  slightest  pity  for  the 
man,  or  shame  of  the  deed.  Was  he  not  a  Turk,  their 
arch-enemy,  and  the  enemy  of  their  race?  Their 
point  of  view  on  the  ethics  of  life  was  quite  original 
to  me,  and  as  they  boasted  of  the  things  they  had 
done,  something  barbaric  in  me  responded  to  their 
recitals.  I  loved  them,  and  as  for  their  leader,  he 
was  a  real  hero  to  me.  Again  they  passed  from  them 
selves  to  the  heroic  period  of  the  Armateloi  and 
Kleftai,  when  brigandage  attained  its  apotheosis. 

After  the  fall  of  Constantinople,  the  Greeks  were 
powerless  against  the  Turks.  The  other  powers  of 
Europe,  during  two  hundred  years,  were  too  fright 
ened  to  think  of  more  than  saving  their  own  skins; 
and  when,  later,  they  did  interfere  in  behalf  of  the 
Christians  under  the  Ottoman  yoke,  they  did  so  only 
as  an  excuse  for  their  personal  gain. 

Thus  the  Greeks  had  to  depend  on  themselves, 
and  in  time  the  flower  of  Greek  manhood  took  to  the 
mountains.  Then  the  wrongs  done  by  the  Turks  to 
their  weak  and  defenseless  fellow-countrymen  were 
fiercely  and  brutally  punished  by  these  brigands. 

148 


It  was  these  Armateloi  and  Kleftai  who  put  an  end 
to  the  human  tax  which  the  Greeks  had  been  forced 
to  pay  the  conqueror.  If  a  little  girl  was  taken  by 
force  from  a  Greek  home,  the  brigands  would  fall 
upon  a  Turkish  village  and  avenge  the  wrong  on  the 
women  and  children  of  the  Turks.  It  was  a  very 
rough  form  of  justice;  but  gradually  the  Turks  began 
to  fear  the  brigands,  and  in  this  fear  they  became 
more  considerate  toward  the  Greeks. 

That  period,  with  all  its  ferocity  and  unspeakable 
brutality,  was  the  period  of  modern  Greek  chivalry; 
for  those  men  did  not  attack  for  money.  They  levied 
on  the  people  merely  for  enough  to  live;  but  when 
they  descended  on  them  as  avengers  of  their  country 
men's  wrongs  they  were  merciless  —  and  they  did 
rob  the  Turkish  garrisons.  In  the  Revolution  of  1821 
much  of  the  powder  used  by  the  Greeks  was  Turkish 
powder,  and  many  a  Turk  died  by  a  gun  he  once  had 
carried. 

My  brigands  knew  every  one  of  the  ballads  of 
that  time.  They  snatched  them  from  each  other's 
mouths,  and  recited  them  with  no  little  talent  and 
dramatic  power.  They  passed  on  to  the  revolution 
itself,  and  to  the  poetry  which  followed  afterward. 
It  was  then  Mano  and  I  joined  in.  At  that  time  I 
knew  the  poetry  of  the  revolution  better  than  I  have 
ever  known  any  other  subject  since.  Mano  and  I 

149 


recited  to  them  the  poems  of  Zalakosta  and  of 
Soutzo,  of  Paparighopoulo,  and  of  the  other  great 
poets  who  were  inspired  by  the  exploits  of  the  Greeks 
from  1821  to  1829. 

The  enthusiasm  of  the  brigands  became  tremend 
ous.  These  poems,  unlike  those  of  the  Armateloi  and 
Kief  tai,  are  written  in  pure  Greek,  not  in  the  Laik 
language,  and  naturally  they  belong  to  the  educated 
classes  rather  than  to  the  people.  My  brother  egged 
me  on  to  recite,  in  a  way  foreign  to  his  nature. 

"Tell  them  the  'Chani  of  Gravia,"'  he  cried. 

This  poem  is  one  of  the  finest  of  modern  Greek 
poems.  It  relates  a  fight  which  took  place  in  an  inn, 
during  the  revolution,  between  a  handful  of  Greeks 
and  a  Turkish  army.  In  the  middle  of  the  night, 
during  a  lull  in  the  fighting,  the  leader  tells  his  men 
that  death  is  certain,  and  that  the  only  thing  left 
them  is  to  cover  death  with  glory.  It  describes  how, 
each  seizing  his  arms,  they  burst  forth  upon  their 
sleeping  foes,  and  by  the  miracle  which  sometimes 
attends  on  noble  courage,  cut  their  way  through,  and 
every  man  escaped. 

In  part  the  poem  may  be  apocryphal,  but  it  is 
founded  on  fact  and  thrills  us  to  the  marrow  of  our 
bones.  It  substantiates  our  claim  to  be  descendants 
of  the  old,  heroic  Greeks.  As  I  recited  to  them  the 
"Chaniof  Gravia,"  the  brigands  fell  under  its  spell; 
150 


and  some  of  the  love  they  felt  for  that  glorious  fight 
fell  upon  me,  too.  I  became  a  small  part  of  that 
poem  into  which  I  was  initiating  them. 

After  I  had  finished,  one  of  them  called  hoarsely:  — 

"Say  it  again!" 

I  repeated  it  again,  from  beginning  to  end. 

When  the  last  line  was  ended,  some  of  the  men  were 
weeping. 

"We  shall  yet  drive  out  the  Turks  —  by  the  help 
of  God,  we  shall!" 

They  were  still  deeply  moved  by  the  poem  when 
my  brother  spoke  to  them. 

"  Pallikaria,  you  have  just  heard  the  little  girl 
reciting  to  you  what  can  only  be  learned  in  an  edu 
cated  home. "  He  turned  to  the  leader:  "You  cannot 
now  believe  that  the  child's  unfortunate  accent  is 
an  affectation,  acquired  in  the  last  few  months. 
Pallikaria,  you  cannot  for  a  moment  think  that  my 
little  sister  is  the  Spiropoulo  girl,  coming  out  of  a 
parvenu  home,  with  money  the  only  tradition. " 

Again  he  turned  to  the  leader:  — 

"I  take  it  that  you  speak  French.  Speak  to  her 
and  to  me  in  it,  and  satisfy  yourself  that  we  know  it. 
Some  of  your  men  here  are  from  Albania,  and  un 
doubtedly  they  know  Italian.  She  can  talk  with 
them  in  that  language.  Will  not  all  this  prove  to  you 
that  she  has  lived  out  of  Anatolia  all  her  short  life?" 


"Who  are  you,  then?"  cried  the  leader.  But  be 
fore  we  could  answer,  he  ordered  us  to  remain  quiet. 
He  disappeared  behind  a  sheepskin,  and  returned 
with  a  paper  and  pencil,  which  he  handed  to  my 
brother.  "Write  here  your  name  and  that  of  the 
little  girl.  Write  also  from  where  you  come,  and 
whither  you  are  going. " 

My  brother  wrote  all  that  he  was  asked  to,  and 
returned  the  paper  to  the  leader. 

The  latter  read  it,  surprise  and  anger  mingling  on 
his  face.  He  turned  to  me:  — 

"Your  name?" 

I  gave  it. 

"Your  brother's?" 

I  gave  that,  too. 

"Where  have  you  come  from?" 

I  told  him. 

"And  where  are  you  going?" 

Again  I  told  him. 

He  tore  the  paper  into  bits,  in  a  fury. 

"Anathema  on  your  heads,  you  idiot  pallikariaf" 
he  cried.  "You  have  captured  the  wrong  people, 
while  the  others  are  now  escaping  us. " 

"I  happen  to  have  read  in  the  paper,"  put  in 
Mano,  "  that  Spiropoulo  and  his  sister  are  going  by 
boat  to  Myrsina,  and  thence  to  their  homes." 

There  was  consternation  among  the  bandits. 


"We  have  very  little,"  my  brother  continued. 
"Take  what  we  have  and  let  us  go." 

"Oh,  please!  please!"  I  implored,  "do  not  take 
my  ring.  It  is  the  only  piece  of  jewelry  left  to  me. " 

"Here!  here!"  one  of  the  men  exclaimed;  "we  are 
not  in  the  habit  of  shearing  lambs  —  it's  sheep's 
wool  we  are  after,  eh,  captain?  " 

The  leader  did  not  reply  to  him.  He  was  regarding 
us,  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

"When  I  shook  hands  with  you  to-night,"  he 
remarked,  "I  felt  as  if  I  were  shaking  hands  with 
thousands  of  golden  pounds.  And  now  —  " 

He  wagged  his  head,  like  a  good  man  upon  whom 
Fate  has  played  a  scurvy  trick. 

"We  shall  get  Spiropoulo  yet,"  said  one  of  the 
men  hopefully.  "He  has  entirely  too  much  money, 
and  we  have  too  little.  Our  motto  is  'Equal  divi 
sion.'" 

"You're  right,  pallikari,"  another  assented,  and 
the  two  shook  hands. 

By  this  time  it  was  the  small  hours  of  the  morning, 
and  the  party  began  to  break  up. 

Some  of  the  men  rose  to  their  feet,  put  on  their 
kosocks,  saluted  the  leader,  and  started  off  on  their 
business.  By  the  entrance  was  a  large  ikon  of  St. 
George,  their  patron  saint.  Each  brigand,  before 
going  out,  halted  in  front  of  the  ikon,  made  the  sign 

153  , 


of  the  cross,  and  reverently  kissed  the  hand  of  the 
saint. 

"Come  with  me,  my  holy  saint,"  each  implored. 

I  almost  giggled  at  the  idea  of  St.  George  going 
with  them  and  assisting  in  the  capture  of  harmless 
men. 

Then  the  lanterns  in  the  cave  were  put  out;  but 
first  two  small  oil  lamps  were  lighted,  one  to  be 
placed  in  front  of  the  ikon  of  St.  George,  and  the 
other  in  front  of  an  ikon  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  which 
stood  in  the  depth  of  the  cave;  for  no  pious  Greek 
will  leave  the  ikon  of  a  saint  in  darkness,  and  many 
poor  persons  will  go  without  food  in  order  to  buy 
the  necessary  "oil  of  kandilla"  for  their  ikons. 

All  of  the  remaining  brigands,  before  lying  down 
on  their  sheepskins,  stood  for  a  minute  in  front  of 
the  ikon  of  the  Virgin,  silently  saying  their  prayers; 
and  then  I  heard  them  saying  aloud,  after  kissing  the 
feet  of  Mary:  — 

"Guard  us  and  keep  us  healthy  and  strong,  our 
dear  little  mother;  and  now  good-night,  little  mis 
tress  of  heaven." 

They  crossed  themselves  with  a  piety  befitting 
monks,  and  I  had  to  stuff  my  handkerchief  into  my 
mouth  to  keep  from  betraying  myself. 

Then  slumber  descended  upon  the  cave.  The  fire 
had  died  down,  and  only  the  dim  rays  of  the  two 
154 


little  oil  lamps  illumined  the  great  room.  It  was 
harder  for  us  to  go  to  sleep  than  it  was  for  the  brig 
ands.  In  the  first  place,  the  sheepskins  they  had 
given  us  were  alive  with  fleas.  Mano  lay  close  to  me, 
keeping  his  arm  around  me. 

The  events  of  the  day  had  excited  me  tremend 
ously,  and  my  brain  would  not  come  to  rest.  When 
we  alone  seemed  to  be  awake,  I  whispered :  — 

"  What  was  that  blood  that  frightened  our  horses  ? 
Had  the  brigands  already  killed  some  one?" 

"No,  I  believe  it  was  only  the  blood  of  some  ani 
mal.  They  often  sprinkle  the  road  with  it,  in  order 
to  terrorize  the  horses  and  assist  in  capturing  travel 
ers.  But  now  you  must  go  to  sleep. " 

I  was  young;  I  had  ridden  many  long  hours;  and 
fleas  or  no  fleas,  brigands  or  no  brigands,  I  fell  asleep. 

The  strong  smell  of  coffee  wakened  me  in  the 
morning.  My  brother  already  held  a  cup  of  it. 

"Did  you  sleep  well  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  must  have  —  but  look  at  my  hands!"  They 
were  dotted  with  red  bites. 

The  cave  had  lost  something  of  its  romantic  ap 
pearance  of  the  night.  There  were  only  three  brig 
ands  in  the  room,  and  they  were  busy  preparing 
food.  One  of  them  got  a  towel,  —  or  what  served 
for  one,  —  put  a  few  drops  of  water  on  the  end  of 
it,  —  water  seemed  to  be  very  scarce  with  them,  — 

155 


and  brought  it  to  me  to  wash  my  face  and  hands. 
He  was  a  very  kind  young  brigand.  He  brought  me 
some  food,  and  a  cup  of  the  strongest  coffee  I  ever 
tasted. 

He  watched  me  eat  as  if  he  had  been  my  nurse, 
and  when  I  was  through,  asked  a  trifle  sheepishly:  — 

"How  did  you  learn  so  much  poetry?" 

"Out  of  books,"  I  replied. 

"Then  you  can  write,  too  ?" 

"Very  well,"  I  asserted  complacently. 

He  became  visibly  embarrassed.  Finally  he 
blurted  out:  — 

"Just  write  out  for  me  the  'Chani  of  Gravia.' 
Write  it  twice  —  no,  three  times;  for  I  shall  always 
want  to  read  it  two  or  three  times. " 

I  not  only  wrote  it  twice  for  him,  but  taught  him 
to  spell  it  out  —  or  rather  to  memorize  it;  for  his 
scholarship  was  very  rudimentary,  while  his  memory 
was  excellent.  I  spent  most  of  the  time  in  this  occu 
pation. 

During  the  course  of  the  day  we  were  told,  quite 
unsensationally,  that  in  the  evening  we  might  con 
tinue  our  journey.  At  nightfall  we  parted  from  the 
brigands  with  cordial  expressions  of  friendship  on 
both  sides.  They  shook  hands  with  us,  and  many  of 
them  assured  us  they  had  enjoyed  our  stay  very 
much,  and  were  sorry  to  see  us  go.  Only  the 
156 


leader  was  sulky  in  his  manner.  "I  thought  you 
were  worth  thousands  of  pounds,"  he  repeated 
grudgingly. 

"The  'Chani  of  Gravia'  was  worth  all  the  trouble 
we  took,"  my  pupil  hastened  to  say,  as  if  he  feared 
we  might  be  hurt  by  the  lack  of  cordiality  in  his  chief. 

We  were  again  blindfolded,  and  two  of  the  men 
led  us  out  of  the  cave  and  back  to  the  place  where 
they  had  captured  us.  How  they  had  obtained 
horses,  I  cannot  imagine,  but  we  found  horses  wait 
ing  for  us. 

I  rode  away  with  an  exhilaration  I  could  not  calm. 

"If  I  were  a  man,"  I  said  emphatically  to  my 
brother,  "I  should  become  a  brigand.  It  is  a  beauti 
ful  life." 

For  the  leader,  with  his  curling  hair  and  his  black 
mustaches,  I  felt  an  especial  admiration,  in  spite  of 
his  offishness.  He  was  long  my  ideal  of  a  hero;  and 
it  was  one  of  the  bitterest  disappointments  of  my 
girlhood  when,  some  years  later,  in  a  fight  between 
his  band  and  an  overwhelming  number  of  Turkish 
soldiers,  he  alone  of  them  all  put  up  a  pitiful  fight, 
and  died  like  a  coward. 

I  wept  when  I  read  about  it,  —  not  for  him,  but 
for  my  lost  ideal,  —  for  the  trust  and  admiration  I 
had  placed  on  a  man  not  worthy  to  be  a  leader  of 
Greek  brigands. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ALI  BABA,   MY  CAIQUE-TCHI 

OUR  return  journey  to  Constantinople  was  un 
eventful.  In  town  we  found  our  mother,  who  had 
decided  to  spend  the  winter  there  and  not  on  the 
island.  I  was  not  supposed  to  be  well  enough  yet 
to  resume  my  studies  seriously.  My  brother  left  us 
shortly  for  Europe  again. 

It  would  have  been  a  dreary  and  miserable  winter 
for  me,  away  from  my  home  and  the  country,  sepa 
rated  from  my  playmates  and  cooped  up  in  small 
city  rooms,  with  only  buildings  to  look  at  on  all  sides, 
had  it  not  been  for  a  discovery  I  made.  By  accident 
I  stumbled  upon  a  big  volume  of  Byzantine  history, 
a  history  till  then  practically  unknown  to  me. 

As  page  after  page  gave  forth  its  treasures,  my 
interest  in  the  people  of  which  it  wrote  increased, 
and  loneliness  and  boredom  departed,  not  to  return 
again  that  winter.  After  I  had  finished  the  book,  it 
came  over  me  that  all  these  marvelous  things  I  had 
been  reading  about  had  taken  place  yonder,  at 
Stamboul,  half  an  hour  from  where  I  sat.  Instantly 
the  desire  took  possession  of  me  to  re-read  that 
history,  chapter  by  chapter,  then  cross  over  to  Stam 
boul  and  find  the  actual  places  mentioned. 
158 


This  was  not  so  easy  to  accomplish  as  one  might 
think;  for  I  had  to  reckon  with  the  elders,  who  would 
have  a  thousand  and  one  objections  to  my  going 
over  to  the  Turkish  city.  I  went  immediately  to  my 
mother,  and  without  any  preamble  —  which  I  knew 
to  be  the  best  way,  in  order  to  take  her  breath  away 
—  told  her  of  my  project,  speaking  of  it  casually, 
as  if  it  were  as  simple  as  drinking  a  glass  of  water. 

She  gave  me  the  puzzled  look  with  which  she  often 
regarded  my  little  person.  I  believe  that  every  time 
I  came  before  her  she  wondered  anew  how  I  happened 
to  be  her  child;  for  she  was  tall  and  beautiful,  and 
very  conventional  in  her  desires,  and  I  was  small  and 
elfish,  and  my  desires  were  usually  for  things  she 
could  not  imagine  any  person  wanting.  After  I  had 
finished  speaking,  she  replied  quietly:  — 

"What  you  ask  is  out  of  the  question;  for  we  have 
no  one,  you  know,  who  can  waste  so  much  time 
every  week  accompanying  you." 

"  I  don't  want  any  one, "  I  replied.  "  I  would  much 
rather  go  alone. " 

The  puzzled  expression  in  her  eyes  deepened.  "  Go 
alone  —  over  there?  But  I  have  never  been  there 
alone  in  all  my  life." 

"I  know  that,  mamma,  but  you  know  perfectly 
well  that  there  are  a  great  many  things  you  never 
did,  or  will  ever  bring  yourself  to  do,  which  I  have 

159 


already  done.  Besides,"  I  pleaded,  "my  father  is 
dead  now;  my  brother  is  away;  you  took  me  from 
my  home  and  brought  me  to  town,  and  you  don't 
even  let  me  go  to  school  on  account  of  my  weak  lungs 
—  and  what  is  there  left  for  me  to  do?" 

"Well,  well,"  my  mother  compromised,  "you  had 
better  let  me  think  it  over,  child. " 

The  result  of  her  thinking  culminated  in  my  being 
accompanied  to  the  former  capital  of  the  great 
Byzantine  Empire  by  an  uninterested  and  unsym 
pathetic  female  elder.  It  was  an  utter  failure,  this 
my  first  attempt  at  archaeological  research.  The 
elder,  besides  being  unsympathetic,  had  a  supercil 
ious  way  of  talking,  and  prided  herself  on  her  ignor 
ance.  Before  the  afternoon  was  at  an  end  she  became 
tired  and  cross,  and  then  coaxed  me,  saying:  "Why 
don't  we  go  and  see  the  lovely  jewels  and  silks  in 
the  market,  and  there  I  shall  treat  you  to  a  plate  of 
taouk-okshu. " 

I  agreed  at  once,  not  because  I  was  willing  to  sell 
my  Byzantine  interests  for  a  plate  of  sweets,  but 
because  her  presence  spoiled  my  pleasure. 

That  evening  my  mother  and  I  had  a  conversa 
tion  of  an  animated  nature,  a  conversation  which 
was  continued  the  next  day  and  yet  the  next,  and 
grew  more  animated  with  each  session,  until  on  my 
side  it  reached  stormy  heights,  —  and  my  mother's 

1 60 


nature  abhorred  storms;  so  I  obtained  the  coveted 
permission  of  going  alone  to  the  city  of  Byzantium. 

"Mind  though,  baby,"  she  cautioned,  "don't 
ever  cross  the  Golden  Horn  in  a  boat.  You  must 
always  go  by  the  bridge. " 

It  had  not  occurred  to  me  to  take  the  boat,  but 
once  the  suggestion  was  made,  it  took  possession  of 
my  brain,  and  tormented  it  to  such  an  extent  that 
on  arriving  at  the  Galata  Bridge  my  feet  turned 
straight  to  the  quay  where  the  Turkish  boatmen 
were  squatted,  contemplatively  "drinking"  their 
narghiles. 

"A  boat!"  I  commanded,  imitating  as  far  as  possi 
ble  my  mother's  manner. 

The  first  man  of  the  row  put  aside  his  narghile 
and  rose  quietly.  Unlike  all  the  other  nationalities 
in  Turkey,  the  Turks  alone  never  jostle  each  other 
for  a  fare.  They  have  a  system  of  their  own  which 
they  scrupulously  adhere  to. 

The  caique-tchi  who  approached  at  my  summons 
was  an  old  man.  He  was  dressed  in  full,  baggy 
trousers,  and  wore  a  white  turban  on  his  head.  He 
must  have  been  already  old  when  Sultan  Medjid, 
thirty  years  previously,  had  substituted  the  fez  for 
the  turban,  and  he  had  not  cared  to  adopt  the  new 
headdress. 

"What  does  the  little  hanoum  wish?" 

161 


"To  cross,"  I  replied,  with  the  same  haughty 
manner  as  before. 

He  bent  down,  unfastened  the  rope  with  which 
his  slender,  graceful  little  caique  was  tied,  and  I 
stepped  into  it  and  settled  myself  blissfully  among 
the  cushions  in  the  bottom. 

Before  he  had  rowed  me  halfway  over  I  remem 
bered  that  I  had  forgotten  to  strike  a  bargain  with 
him.  "By  the  way,"  I  said  casually,  "what  is  your 
fare?" 

"Akourous&nd  a  half "  (six  cents),  he  said  promptly. 

"What!"  I  cried;  "if  you  are  not  ready  to  accept 
half  that,  you  may  just  as  well  take  me  back. " 

He  stopped  rowing.  "Take  you  back!  But  where 
would  be  the  profit?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  I  replied,  "but  that's  the  an 
swer  the  dead  philosopher  made  to  Charon. " 

"If  he  were  dead,  how  could  he  make  an  answer?" 
he  asked. 

Thereupon  I  found  myself  in  my  most  favorite 
pastime  —  initiating  somebody  into  the  Greek  writ 
ings;  and  as  I  explained  to  him  Lucian's  "Dialogues 
of  the  Dead,"  the  old  Turk  listened  intently,  pad 
dling  very  slowly,  slightly  bending  toward  me,  his 
kind  eyes  twinkling,  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles 
—  looking  very  much  like  a  nice,  big,  red  apple, 
shriveled  by  the  frost  and  sun. 
162 


By  the  time  I  had  finished  the  story  of  the  philo 
sopher,  we  were  approaching  the  other  side  of  the 
Golden  Horn. 

"You  see,"  I  concluded,  "you  get  more  than 
Charon  did  out  of  the  transaction;  and,  besides, 
since  I  am  going  over  there  three  times  a  week,  you 
may  become  my  regular  boatman,  and  if  you  are 
over  here  with  a  fare  at  sunset,  you  may  wait  for  me 
and  take  me  back,  too,  —  only  then  I  shall  pay  you 
one  para  less." 

It  was  not  because  I  was  of  a  miserly  disposition 
that  I  was  bargaining  so  hard;  but  I  had  only  one 
medjedie  a  month,  and  the  elders  invariably  bor 
rowed  a  part  of  it  back  from  me,  so  that  I  was  always 
in  straitened  circumstances. 

"Why  are  you  going  over  there  so  often?"  he 
asked  kindly. 

I  liked  his  baggy  bloomers,  of  the  color  of  the 
stained-glass  windows  one  sees  in  the  old  cathedrals; 
I  liked  his  being  faithful  to  the  turban,  and  I  fell  in 
love  with  his  kind,  beaming  old  face.  Besides,  the 
way  he  enjoyed  the  story  of  the  philosopher  and 
Charon  convinced  me  that  he  was  not  like  most  of 
the  dreadful  elders,  —  so  I  told  him  the  reason. 

His  oars  again  became  suspended  in  the  air,  and 
he  listened  with  intense  interest. 

"Is  it  in  the  Koran  you  read  all  those  things?" 

163 


"Oh,  no,"  I  said,  "in  a  book  bigger  than  the 
Koran." 

"How  can  that  be?"  he  asked  incredulously. 

Then  I  amplified,  and  told  him  of  Constantine 
the  Great,  of  how  he  left  Rome  to  build  a  new  city, 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  before  the  Turks 
had  even  thought  of  leaving  Asia  and  invading 
Europe.  His  attention  to  my  words  delighted  me. 
I  had  not  been  so  happy  for  ever  so  long;  for  next  to 
reading  books  I  loved  to  impart  them,  since  in  the 
telling  I  tasted  them  better.  They  became  clearer 
to  me.  Besides,  sharing  things  from  books  is  a  joy 
to  which  there  is  nothing  comparable. 

"You  can  read  all  this  ?  "  he  exclaimed  admiringly ; 
"you,  who  are  no  bigger  than  my  thumb!  But  then 
your  people  could  always  read,  though  they  were 
no  kind  of  fighters  and  we  beat  them." 

He  did  not  mean  to  be  rude,  I  knew.  It  was  his 
direct,  Oriental  way  of  stating  a  personal  fact,  and 
I  did  not  resent  it.  But  I  did  explain  to  him  that  in 
the  past  we  had  been  very  great  fighters  —  though 
I  kindly  abstained  from  telling  him  how  we  had 
fought  them  in  the  revolution,  and  how  we  beat  them. 

That  he  was  genuinely  interested  he  proved  to  me 
when  we  landed. 

"  Benim  kuchouk,  hanoum  (my  little  lady),  I  should 
love  to  be  your  caique-tchi,  both  ways,  and  I  shall 
164 


charge  you  only  two  paras  for  each  crossing,  if  you 
will  only  tell  me  what  you  are  going  to  see  every  day, 
and  whether  you  found  it  over  yonder. " 

I  extended  my  microscopic  hand,  and  he  took  it 
solemnly  in  his  big  callous  brown  one. 

"You  are  a  dear,  Ali  Baba,"  I  cried.  I  did  not 
know  what  his  name  was,  but  Father  Ali  seemed  to 
suit  him. 

Byzantine  history,  combined  with  my  search  in 
old  Byzantium,  and  Ali  Baba's  rapt  attention  to  my 
expounding  of  it,  made  that  winter  a  very  happy  one. 
I  generally  returned  when  the  city  was  bathed  in  the 
sunset  light;  and  these  hours  with  Ah'  Baba,  listen 
ing,  his  oars  poised  over  the  waters  of  the  Golden 
Horn,  —  truly  golden  at  this  hour,  —  were  hours  of 
enchantment  for  me.  How  could  we  help  becoming 
fast  friends,  sharing,  as  we  did,  such  magical  moments 
together.  I  liked  him  so  much  that  I  began  to  econo 
mize  and  make  him  presents  I  thought  he  needed, 
such  as  a  new  shirt,  a  new  pair  of  stockings,  a  new 
cloth  for  his  turban;  and  it  almost  broke  my  heart 
when  one  evening,  as  he  was  landing  me  on  the  Con 
stantinople  side,  he,  too,  made  me  a  present.  It  was 
a  very  gaudy  red-and-blue  handkerchief,  filled  with 
raisins  and  leblebia,  —  a  delectable  grain  only  to  be 
found  in  Turkey. 

I  accepted  these,  apparently  delighted,  yet  won- 

165 


dering  what  I  was  to  do  with  them.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  enter  the  house  and  go  to  my  room 
without  having  to  explain  the  handkerchief  and  its 
contents, — and  the  handkerchief  would  mean  to  tell 
about  the  boat-rides,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  contem 
plate  what  would  follow  that  disclosure.  With  a 
great  deal  of  heart-aching  I  had  to  dispose  of  the 
sweets.  I  gave  them  to  some  urchins  in  the  street, 
and  my  ache  in  a  measure  was  relieved  by  the  joy 
they  manifested. 

Although  this  was  the  only  winter  I  traveled  with 
Ali  Baba,  I  never  forgot  him.  Indeed,  the  bond  be 
tween  us  was  too  great  lightly  to  forget;  and  when  I 
came  to  town  I  always  managed  to  save  a  half-hour 
for  him.  I  would  go  directly  to  the  quay,  and  if  he 
were  not  there  I  would  wait  for  him  till  he  came  back 
from  the  other  side.  If  he  were  there  he  always  rose 
quickly,  unfastened  his  little  caique,  and  off  we  were; 
only  to  stop  in  midstream,  his  oars  poised  in  the  air, 
his  kind  eyes  twinkling,  his  mouth  half  open  with  a 
smile,  listening  to  the  things  I  had  to  say  of  books 
and  of  travels. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MY  LADY   OF   THE   FOUNTAIN 

THE  following  year  I  was  sent  to  Paris  for  my 
studies,  where  I  was  to  remain  for  three  whole  years 
without  returning  home  ;  yet  during  my  first  summer 
holidays  my  mother  changed  her  mind  and  sent  for 
me.  That  summer,  too,  we  were  not  to  spend  at  our 
home  on  the  island,  but  at  Pantich,  an  adorable  and 
sleepy  little  Turkish  village,  on  the  Asiatic  shore  of 
the  Marmora. 

Pantich  is  as  far  behind  the  rest  of  Turkey  as  the 
rest  of  Turkey  is  behind  Europe.  Its  traditions  are 
those  of  the  Byzantine  period,  when  Constantinople 
was  the  capital  of  the  Greek  Empire.  The  Turkish 
quarters  cluster  around  the  tzami,  which  is  built 
in  a  square  of  plantain  trees,  with  a  fountain  in 
the  middle.  The  Greek  houses  make  a  belt  around 
their  little  orthodox  church,  with  a  school  on  its  right, 
and  a  cemetery  on  its  left.  And  though  the  Turks 
and  the  Greeks  are  divided  like  the  goats  and  the 
sheep,  all  men  wear  the  fez,  and  all  women  veil  their 
faces. 

Only  one  event  ever  happened  in  Pantich:  the 
coming  of  the  railroad  through  it.  Small  wonder 
that  when  the  trains  began  to  run,  the  inhabitants 

167 


brought  their  luncheons  and  sat  all  day  long  close  to 
the  rails,  waiting  to  see  the  wonderful  thing  pass, 
which  ran  of  its  own  accord  with  a  speed  beyond  the 
dreams  of  the  fastest  horse.  Small  wonder,  too,  that 
the  rents  of  the  houses  near  the  track  began  to  go  up 
like  speculative  stocks  in  a  Wall  Street  boom. 

The  house  we  took  belonged  to  a  Turkish  lady, 
who  became  at  once  the  great  interest  of  my  life, 
although  she  was  never  to  be  seen.  We  heard  that 
she  was  the  former  wife  of  dashing  young  Nouri 
Pasha,  whom  we  knew  on  the  island  of  Prinkipo, 
and  who  was  famous  for  his  looks,  his  riches,  and  his 
many  beautiful  wives.  We  transacted  our  business 
with  her  through  one  of  her  slaves.  The  lady  herself 
had  never  been  seen  since  the  day  she  left  her  hus 
band,  eight  years  before,  and  came  to  bury  herself 
in  her  maternal  property  here. 

Our  house  was  surrounded  by  a  very  large  garden 
and  an  orchard,  the  trees  of  which  were  so  old  and 
so  patched  that  I  was  never  surprised  on  climbing 
a  cherry  tree  to  find  plums  growing  there,  or  at  the 
top  of  a  plum  tree  to  discover  dzidzifa.  It  became 
a  game  with  me  to  climb  the  highest  trees,  to  see 
what  would  grow  on  the  top  branches.  These  trees 
were  grafted  with  the  greatest  ingenuity,  not  for 
the  fruit,  but  for  the  color  scheme  in  blossom  time. 

At  the  end  of  our  orchard  there  was  a  drop  of 
168 


about  eight  feet,  and  there  began  the  garden  sur 
rounding  the  house  where  our  proprietress  lived.  It 
must  have  comprised  a  hundred  acres,  and  ended  at 
the  sea.  It  was  not  cultivated,  like  the  other  prop 
erties,  but  was  mostly  woodland,  with  flowers  in  the 
clearings.  What  I  could  see  of  it  fascinated  and 
attracted  me.  I  had  an  idea  that  if  I  could  pene 
trate  into  that  garden,  I  should  surprise  the  spirits 
of  the  flowers  and  trees,  who,  thinking  themselves 
protected  from  human  intrusion,  must  come  forth 
from  their  earthly  shells  to  parade  under  their  own 
shadow. 

We  had  been  in  our  new  old  house  for  two  weeks, 
and  when  I  was  neither  reading  nor  climbing  the 
trees,  I  was  scheming  how  to  get  into  the  garden. 
In  all  my  reconnoitring  I  had  never  seen  or  heard 
a  human  being  in  that  garden  below,  and  if  I  had  not 
known  that  people  lived  there,  I  should  have  thought 
the  property  abandoned. 

My  mother  went  away  for  the  week-end.  It  was 
early  afternoon,  and  the  entire  universe  was  at 
siesta.  I  chose  that  hour  to  make  a  still  closer  search 
for  a  means  of  getting  down  those  eight  feet,  to  roam 
the  beckoning  garden.  If  discovered,  of  course  I 
should  have  to  pretend  that  I  had  fallen  in  accident 
ally.  I  went  as  near  to  the  edge  as  I  could,  and  be 
fore  I  knew  it,  down  went  the  stones  under  my  feet, 

169 


and  down  went  I,  followed  by  more  stones.  In  fall 
ing,  my  teeth  cut  my  lip,  and  made  it  bleed.  I  lay 
partially  stunned,  but  certain  I  was  not  badly  hurt; 
for  all  my  limbs  had  answered  to  the  call  of  my  little 
brain.  Then  I  heard  the  prat-prat  of  running  feet, 
and  waited  to  see  what  would  happen. 

A  young  woman  came  and  bent  over  me. 

"  Yavroum,  are  you  hurt?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  I  answered. 

"But  you  are  bleeding!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  horri 
fied  tone. 

She  was  joined  by  another  woman,  somewhat 
older,  who  was  all  out  of  breath  from  running. 

"Is  she  dead?"  she  cried. 

"  It  will  take  more  than  this  to  kill  me, "  I  declared, 
and  moved  to  get  up. 

"No!  no!  Be  still.  We  will  carry  you  to  our  mis 
tress,"  they  commanded. 

Willingly  I  obeyed.  One  took  hold  of  my  shoulders, 
and  the  other  of  my  feet,  and  they  carried  me  to  a 
small  summer-house,  in  a  grove  of  cypresses.  A  tall, 
slender  woman  dressed  in  the  green  of  the  grass  half 
rose  from  a  couch. 

"Is  she  hurt,  Leila?"  she  asked,  and  it  was  as  if 

I  were  a  little  bird  fallen  from  its  nest,  so  remote  and 

impersonal  was  the  interest  manifested  in  her  voice. 

If  at  the  time  I  had  been  familiar  with  Maeterlinck, 

170 


I  should  have  thought  that  I  was  a  minor  actor  in 
one  of  his  unreal  plays,  and  the  lady  in  green  the 
leading  character. 

"She  's  bleeding,  mistress." 

"Then  you  had  better  carry  her  into  the  house." 

She  rose  and  preceded  us.  Her  walk,  like  her 
speech,  seemed  remote  from  common  earth,  and  to 
my  half-closed  eyes  she  seemed  to  float  along,  not 
to  proceed  step  by  step,  as  do  common  mortals. 

They  carried  me  into  the  vast  hall  of  her  house, 
paved  with  cement,  and  ending  in  a  balcony  over 
hanging  the  Sea  of  Marmora,  and  laid  me  on  a  couch. 
The  mistress  of  the  house  sat  by  me,  and  touched  my 
cheek  lightly  with  one  of  her  fingers. 

"Get  some  fresh  water,  Leila,"  she  commanded. 

The  younger  of  the  two  slaves  lifted  an  iron  cover 
in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  and  dropped  down  an  old 
black  iron  bucket,  which  after  a  long  minute  touched 
water  in  the  depths  of  the  earth.  The  water  she 
brought  me  was  icy  cold.  They  bathed  my  mouth, 
and  put  a  wet  towel  on  my  head.  Inwardly  I  was 
laughing  at  all  this  attention;  but  I  was  quite  con 
tent. 

When  the  bleeding  stopped,  the  lady  ordered  a 
sherbet.  It  was  made  of  fresh  cherries,  cool  and 
sweet,  and  I  ate  it  with  great  relish.  Then  the  lady 
in  her  soft,  remote  voice  crooned :  — 

171 


"You  are  the  baby  of  my  new  tenants,  are  you 
not?" 

"I  am  not  a  baby,"  I  answered,  insulted.  "I'm 
quite  grown  up,  only  I  'm  undersized  —  and  all  my 
frocks  are  three  years  old.  But  because  they  are  in 
good  condition,  and  I  can't  outgrow  them  enough, 
I  must  keep  on  wearing  them. " 

She  laughed.  "I  have  been  watching  you  since 
you  came  here,  and  it  seems  to  me  wonderful  that 
you  have  n't  been  killed  several  times.  Why  do  you 
keep  on  climbing  those  trees?" 

"To  get  my  afternoon  tea  up  there,"  I  answered; 
"besides  which  it  keeps  me  thin." 

The  light  of  amusement  danced  in  her  eyes,  but 
she  did  not  laugh  again. 

"I  can  see  what  you  think  in  your  eyes,"  I  said. 
"You  think  that  what  I  need  is  fattening.  My 
family  takes  care  of  that;  for  I  am  made  to  swallow 
everything  from  mn  de  quinquina  to  any  other  drug 
they  may  see  advertised,  with  or  without  the  con 
sent  of  the  doctor.  And  if  I  were  to  get  fat,  they 
would  then  start  on  the  opposite  drugs." 

At  this  she  burst  forth  into  peals  of  laughter, 
and  in  the  midst  of  her  laughing  she  said  "  I  do  believe 
you  are  older  than  you  look." 

I  gave  a  jump  and  sat  upright.  The  two  slaves, 
who  were  standing  over  me  with  their  arms  crossed, 
172 


exclaimed  in  unison :  "  She  must  not  move,  mistress, 
she  must  not  move!" 

"  Now  lie  down,  like  a  little  dear,  and  tell  me  how 
old  you  are." 

"To  show  you  how  old  I  am,"  I  said  proudly  and 
priggishly,  "I  may  tell  you  that  I  have  finished  my 
Greek  studies,  and  have  been  a  year  in  Paris.  I 
return  there  again  in  September. " 

"In  Paris!  You  have  been  in  Paris?"  she  asked 
reverently,  losing  some  of  the  remoteness  in  her  voice. 

I  was  pleased  to  notice  the  interest  I  was  arousing 
in  her. 

"Oh,  I  have  been  there  several  times  before,  only 
now  I  am  there  as  a  student. " 

"  I  am  going  to  send  word  to  your  mother  that  you 
fell  into  my  garden,  that  you  are  a  little  hurt,  and 
that  I  shall  keep  you  all  the  afternoon." 

"You  needn't  trouble  yourself,"  I  said,  "for 
there  's  nobody  at  home  but  the  maids.  I  shall  be 
all  alone  for  two  days  now. " 

"Indeed!"  Her  eyes  shone  with  pleasure.  "Then 
perhaps  you  would  like  to  spend  those  two  days  with 
me?" 

"  I  should  love  to, "  I  cried;  "but  I  must  first  make 
you  a  little  confession." 

She  leaned  over  me  and  forced  me  to  lie  down. 
She  was  still  quite  Maeterlinckian. 

173 


"What  is  your  confession?" 

"  The  reason  I  fell  into  your  garden, "  I  proceeded 
very  quickly,  "was  because  I  was  reconnoitring 
how  to  manage  to  fall  into  it.  I  wanted  very  much 
to  see  your  garden  —  and  you. " 

"Why?" 

"For  many  reasons,"  I  answered  diplomatically. 

"Give  them  to  me." 

"  W-e-1-1,  you  have  lived  here  for  years  now,  with 
out  ever  leaving  the  place. " 

"I  don't  know  of  any  one  in  Pantich  who  ever 
does  leave  it. " 

"Y-e-s,  I  know;  but  you  are  different." 

She  leaned  over  me  with  the  look  of  a  severe  fairy 
in  her  large  dark  eyes. 

"You  just  tell  me  why  you  wished  to  see  me." 

"All  the  truth?  "I  asked. 

"All  the  truth." 

"Well,  for  the  romance  which  surrounds  you.  You 
left  Nouri  Pasha  and  his  beautiful  houses  to  come 
and  live  here,  in  this  very  old  house,  in  a  place  where 
nothing  ever  happens.  Besides,  I  imagined  you  to 
be  very  beautiful. " 

"And  do  you  find  me  as  beautiful  as  you  thought  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  All  I  can  think  of  when  I  look  at 
you  is  —  a  fountain  - 

"  To  call  me  a  fountain  is  almost  like  a  wicked  jest, " 
174 


she  interrupted.  "A  fountain  gives  constantly  forth 
the  riches  of  its  waters." 

"But  the  fountain  you  remind  me  of  had  no 
waters.  It  was  a  big  fountain,  in  the  middle  of  which 
sat  a  bronze  lady  looking  exactly  like  you.  The 
waters  were  to  pour  forth  from  her  two  extended 
hands  —  but  none  came.  The  gardener  told  me  they 
had  lost  the  key,  and  they  had  never  been  able  to 
unlock  it.  And  as  there  were  many  more  fountains 
in  the  place,  they  did  not  bother." 

A  cloud  passed  over  her  face. 

"Then  I  am  like  your  fountain." 

She  sat  drooping,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap, 
gazing  before  her  with  that  gaze  which  sees  not  the 
world.  At  length  she  shook  herself  out  of  her  mood 
and  turned  to  the  slave:  - 

"Leila,  go  to  the  little  bird's  home,  and  say  she 
is  with  us,  and  that  I  shall  keep  her  till  her  mother 
returns.  And  you,  Mihri,  can  go  and  make  the  room 
next  to  mine  ready  for  this  little  child. " 

"Please  don't  call  me  'little  child,'"  I  exclaimed. 
"  I  am  fourteen  years  old,  and  at  my  age  my  great- 
grandmother  was  married  and  had  a  son. " 

She  gave  no  heed  to  my  words,  seeming  to  be  lost 
in  her  own  thoughts. 

"When  you  go  to  Paris  somebody  accompanies 
you,  of  course." 

175 


"Not  always.  I  know  all  the  captains  of  the  Fabre 
Line,  and  all  the  officers.  I  am  placed  in  their  care, 
and  at  Marseilles  I  take  the  train,  and  reach  Paris 
the  same  day,  where  I  am  met.  Anyway,  I  could  go 
to  the  end  of  the  world  by  myself. " 

The  word  Paris  seemed  to  possess  the  power  to 
give  her  whatever  semblance  to  life  she  could  ac 
quire. 

"But  sometimes  somebody  may  go  with  you  as  a 
companion  —  yes?" 

"Yes,"  I  assented. 

She  rose,  and  crossing  the  vast  hall,  stood  on  the 
balcony  overhanging  the  sea.  When  she  came  back 
to  me  her  eyes  seemed  changed.  They  were  larger, 
deeper,  and  full  of  mystery.  She  was  more  than 
ever  like  the  Lady  of  the  Locked  Fountain. 

"I  am  very  glad  you  fell  to-day  into  my  garden. 
I  think  —  I  —  shall  like  you. "  She  sat  down  com 
fortably  by  me,  cross-legged,  her  long  string  of 
amber  beads  held  in  her  clasped  hands.  "Tell  me, 
what  do  you  do  with  the  books  you  are  so  interested 
in  when  you  are  not  trying  to  dig  your  grave  by 
climbing  the  trees?" 

"I  read  them,"  I  answered,  puzzled. 

"Read?  Read  what?" 

"  Just   read,"  I   answered   again.    "  Don't   you 
read  ?  " 
176 


She  shook  her  head. 

"Don't  you  ever  read  anything?"  I  exclaimed; 
for  my  own  life  was  made  up  of  books.  Then  the 
suspicion  came  to  me  that  perhaps  she  did  not  know 
how.  "Can't  you  read?"  I  asked. 

"I  learned  when  I  was  a  child;  and  I  can  still  read 
the  Koran,  where  I  know  it  pretty  well,  and  some 
poetry. " 

"Then  you  do  read  poetry?" 

"Not  now;  for  I  know  my  poems  by  heart." 

I  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  '"You  don't  know 
by  heart  all  the  poems  in  the  world,  do  you?" 

"No,  unless  all  the  poems  in  the  world  are  ten," 
she  answered,  smiling. 

I  pondered  a  minute  over  her  state  of  mind.  "I 
think  I  should  go  mad  unless  I  had  books  to  read," 
I  observed. 

"What  is  in  them?"  she  asked,  more  simply  than 
I  had  ever  asked  about  anything  in  my  life.  At  that 
moment  she  was  a  pure  Asiatic,  descended  from  a 
thousand  Asiatic  ancestors,  from  whom  the  books 
have  kept  their  secrets.  "What  is  in  them?"  she 
repeated.  "Are  n't  they  all  alike  ?" 

"Each  book  is  the  history  of  a  human  being,  or 
of  a  whole  race;  and  sometimes  it  takes  books  and 
books  to  tell  you  about  the  one  or  the  other." 

"How  many  have  you  read  in  all  ?" 

177 


"Thousands,"  I  answered  vaingloriously. 

"And  do  you  love  them  all?" 

I  shook  my  head.  "No,  there  are  horrid  books,  as 
there  are  horrid  people;  but  most  of  them  are  beauti 
ful,  full  of  the  lives  and  stories  of  people  who  have 
lived  and  dreamed  and  done  things  in  the  world." 

"Tell  me  some  of  them." 

She  bent  her  head  and  listened,  while  I  told  her 
some  of  my  favorite  tales;  and  as  I  talked  she  be 
came  excited,  and  laughed  when  the  stories  were 
funny,  and  cried  if  they  were  sad. 

During  the  two  days  I  spent  with  her,  I  related 
many  of  the  books  I  had  read ;  and  at  the  end  of  my 
stay  we  were  close  friends,  for  if  I  was  a  child  in 
years,  she  was  one  in  experience.  And  she  was  so 
delightfully  simple,  with  a  simplicity  which  must 
have  made  God  glad  to  have  created  human  beings. 

If  she  were  ignorant  of  books,  she  was  curiously 
full  of  ideas  concerning  things  she  had  observed. 
Because  she  lived  in  solitude  and  watched  the  sky, 
she  knew  all  the  stars  —  not  by  their  scientific  names, 
but  by  ones  she  invented  for  herself.  As  we  sat  on 
the  balcony  over  the  water  she  told  me  that  at  cer 
tain  seasons  of  the  year  a  large  luminous  star  kept 
watch  over  the  opposite  side  of  the  Marmora.  She 
called  it  the  "heavenly  lily,"  and  knew  the  exact 
hour  it  appeared  every  night,  and  how  long  it  would 
178 


stay.  She  told  me  that  the  coming  of  certain  stars 
had  to  do  with  the  growth  of  certain  flowers  and 
crops.  She  spoke  of  them  not  as  stars,  but  as  heavenly 
watchers,  whose  earthly  worshipers  were  the  flowers. 
The  water  she  referred  to  as  the  earth's  milk.  She 
disliked  the  winds,  but  she  loved  the  storms,  "be 
cause  they  proved  that  Allah  could  lose  his  tem 
per.  It  is  nice,"  she  added  in  a  very  low  tone,  as  if 
afraid  that  he  might  hear  her,  "it's  nice  to  feel  that 
Allah  himself  has  failings. " 

But  if  she  were  ready  to  talk  of  her  thoughts,  there 
was  a  certain  aloofness  about  her  which  exempted 
her  personal  affairs  from  discussion.  Indeed,  I  still 
had  the  impression  of  talking  with  the  bronze  Lady 
of  the  Fountain.  This  attitude  of  hers  several  times 
arrested  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  the  sentence:  "Why 
did  you  leave  handsome  Nouri  Pasha?" 

Just  before  I  went  away,  she  asked,  apropos  of 
nothing,  "When  do  you  leave  for  Paris?" 

"At  the  end  of  September,  or  maybe  the  first 
week  in  October." 

"It  is  a  very  long  way  off,"  she  murmured,  half 
to  herself. 

"It  will  pass  quickly  enough." 

She  remained  silent,  in  that  silence  which  is  full 
of  whispers.  One  felt  the  talking  of  her  thoughts. 

After  this  first  visit  it  became  a  habit  of  hers  to 

179 


send  for  me  often  to  spend  entire  afternoons  with  her. 
She  let  me  climb  her  trees  and  gather  fruit  for  our 
afternoon  meal,  while  the  slaves  drew  cool  water 
from  the  well. 

When  our  friendship  was  a  few  weeks  old,  I  asked 
her:  "Do  you  like  living  here  all  alone  in  this  old 
house?  Nouri  Pasha  has  so  many  other  houses,  both 
on  the  island  and  on  the  Bosphorus,  which  are  ever 
so  much  nicer  than  this  old  one.  Why  don't  you  take 
one  of  those?" 

"This  is  not  Nouri  Pasha's  house,"  she  corrected 
me.  "This  is  my  own  house.  I  was  born  here,  and 
I  love  it.  You  must  n't  call  it  old,  otherwise  it  will 
be  offended,  and  its  shadow  will  grow  dark  when 
you  come  into  it." 

I  did  not  say  anything  for  a  while,  and  it  was  she 
who  spoke  again. 

"You  know  Nouri  Pasha,  then?" 

"Oh,  yes.  He  lives  near  us  on  the  island,  and  I 
love  the  horses  he  rides,  they  are  so  large  and  shiny; 
and  I  can  tell  it  is  his  carriage  from  very  far  off,  be 
cause  he  has  so  many  unnecessary  chains  on  the 
harness,  which  dangle  and  make  a  fuss. " 

She  laughed  like  a  child  at  this  description,  and  I, 
encouraged  by  the  laugh,  asked  boldly :  — 

"Did  you  love  him  very  much?" 

"I  think  so,"  she  replied  simply. 
1 80 


"  Frightfully?" 

The  girlish  adverb  amused  her. 

"Perhaps  —  even  so. " 

As  she  said  the  last  words  her  voice  became  remote, 
her  eyes  took  on  their  unhuman  expression,  and  she 
turned  again  into  the  Lady  of  the  Fountain.  Yet 
her  lips  opened,  and  she  said :  — 

"  Tell  me  a  story,  fairy  child,  —  a  story  about 
Paris." 

And  because  Alexandre  Dumas  pere  has  lived  and 
written,  I  could  tell  her  of  France  in  dazzling  colors, 
in  dazzling  deeds.  In  the  midst  of  my  story  she 
broke  in :  — 

"Have  you  ever  seen-  '  She  stopped  abruptly. 
"Go  on,  go  on,  dear.  Forgive  me  for  interrupting." 

"Have  I  ever  seen  what?"  I  insisted. 

A  forbidding  look  made  me  continue  my  story. 

She  became  a  regular  part  of  my  life.  I  even  was 
obedient  at  home,  for  fear  that  as  a  punishment  I 
might  be  kept  from  her.  As  soon  as  luncheon  was 
over,  I  would  lie  down  for  my  hour  of  rest,  then  dress 
quickly  and  go  to  the  place  where  I  had  first  fallen 
into  her  garden.  There  we  now  had  two  ropes  fast 
ened,  for  me  to  slide  down.  Sometimes  she  would 
even  be  there,  ready  to  catch  me  before  I  touched 
the  ground. 

We  were  fast  friends,  yet  our  friendship  partook 

181 


of  the  unreal,  since  she  never  gave  me  anything  ex 
cept  her  impersonal  thoughts.  Of  her  past  life  she 
never  spoke,  and  her  heart  was  as  withheld  from  me 
as  the  waters  of  the  fountain  to  which  I  had  compared 
her. 

Again  one  day  she  began:  "Have  you  ever  seen 
—  "  and  again  broke  off,  and  insisted  that  she  had 
meant  to  say  nothing,  and  apologized  for  not  know 
ing  what  she  wanted  to  say. 

I  pondered  a  good  deal  over  the  unfinished  phrase, 
and  finally  thought  I  had  found  the  end  of  it.  So 
one  afternoon  when  she  began  for  the  third  time, 
"Have  you  ever  seen — "  and  stopped,  I  added  — 
"Nouri  Pasha's  other  three  wives?  Yes,  I  have  seen 
them,  and  if  I  were  a  man  I'd  gladly  give  all  three  of 
them  to  get  you." 

She  turned  squarely  upon  me,  a  look  of  amaze 
ment  in  her  deep  brown  eyes,  which  at  the  moment 
were  full  of  the  light  of  the  sun  and  appeared  golden. 
Then  she  exploded  into  laughter.  Peal  followed  peal, 
and  I  was  cross  at  her  for  making  me  appear  stupid 
when  I  had  thought  myself  so  clever. 

"Just  what  made  you  think  this?" 

Out  of  my  anger,  I  answered  brutally:  "Well,  it 
is  quite  natural  that  you  should  want  to  know  about 
the  women  who  have  supplanted  you." 

The  instant  the  words  were  uttered  I  repented 
182 


them,  and  I  should  have  tried  to  gain  her  pardon, 
except  that  she  did  not  even  seem  to  have  noticed 
my  brutality. 

"I  know  how  they  look,"  she  said  calmly:  "and 
men  would  not  agree  with  you  about  the  exchange. 
Besides,  they  are  all  younger  than  I  —  the  youngest 
is  only  three  years  older  than  you  —  only  as  old  as 
I  was  when  I  was  married." 

Her  voice  had  been  growing  colder  and  colder,  and 
the  chill  of  November  frost  was  on  the  last  word. 
Fortunately  Leila  came  in  with  her  zither  to  sing 
and  play.  When  the  time  came  for  me  to  go  away, 
my  friend  kissed  and  patted  me  for  a  long  time,  and 
said :  — 

"When  the  hanoum,  your  mother,  goes  away 
again,  will  she  not  let  you  come  and  stay  with  me, 
if  I  send  word  I  shall  be  responsible  for  your  neck?  " 

Thus  it  came  about  that  whenever  my  mother 
went  off  for  a  week-end,  I  found  myself  the  guest  of 
my  Lady  of  the  Fountain,  and  slept  in  the  little 
room  off  hers.  During  one  of  these  visits  she  came 
in  at  night,  and  sat  down  near  my  bed. 

"When  you  go  to  Paris  this  time,  some  one  will 
accompany  you,"  she  said. 

"No,  I  am  going  alone." 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  no,  you  will  have  some 
one  with  you;  for  I  am  going  with  you." 

183 


I  was  amazed  to  the  point  of  speechlessness.  When 
I  regained  my  tongue  I  exclaimed :  — 

"You  know  perfectly  well  that  the  Government 
will  never  permit  it. " 

"Yes.  That  is  why  I  shall  not  ask  the  Govern 
ment.  I  have  always  wanted  to  see  the  world,  and 
especially  Paris.  I  never  saw  how  I  could  do  it  till 
you  fell  into  my  garden  —  and  I  know  that  I  can 
trust  you." 

"But  how  will  you  manage  it?" 

"I  shall  be  your  companion." 

"You  can't,  you  speak  neither  Greek  nor  French. 
Every  one  will  guess  you  are  Turkish. " 

"I  can  be  an  Armenian,  and  as  for  French,  I  am 
going  to  learn  it.  We  have  time.  You  can  teach  me. " 

Nothing  delighted  me  more  than  an  adventure  — 
and  such  an  uncommon  one.  Until  late  into  the 
night  we  talked  about  her  trip,  studying  it  in  its 
various  aspects.  We  decided  that  I  should  first 
write  to  the  convent  where  I  stayed  in  Paris  to  ask 
if  they  would  take  an  Armenian  lady.  Later  I  was 
to  write  to  the  Compagnie  Fabre  and  engage  her 
stateroom.  "But  the  passport,"  I  cried  suddenly. 
"You  must  have  a  passport,  you  know,  to  leave 
Turkey." 

"Oh,  that  I  have  thought  of,  and  I  have  it  all 
arranged.  You  know  Sourpouy,  the  Armenian  girl, 

184 


the  lace-vendor  of  the  village?  She  is  tall  like  me, 
with  brown  hair  and  brown  eyes.  I  shall  ask  her  to 
go  to  Athens  for  me,  to  buy  me  some  laces  there.  I 
shall  pay  her  expenses,  and  a  good  commission.  She 
must,  of  course,  have  a  teskere  —  yes?" 

"Naturally." 

"Well,  she  will  get  it.  She  will  bring  it  here.  I  will 
examine  it,  and  so  will  Leila.  While  she  examines 
it,  she  smokes  —  but  Leila  is  very  awkward  —  the 
paper  comes  near  her  match,  and  it  burns.  You 
see?" 

"I  see,  only —  " 

"Only  what  burns  is  not  the  passport.  I  am  very 
angry.  I  scold  Leila,  and  then  Leila  says:  'It  is  an 
omen  for  me  not  to  send  poor  Sourpouy,  because  it 
means  that  Sourpouy  is  going  to  drown.'  And  that 
makes  Sourpouy  very  superstitious.  She  will  not  get 
another  passport,  even  when  I  promise  more  com 
mission  —  and  in  this  manner,  you  see,  I  am  left 
with  my  passport. " 

We  laughed  happily  over  her  plans,  and  she  as 
tonished  me  with  her  common  sense  and  practical 
knowledge.  And  she  who  had  done  no  studying 
since  she  was  a  little  girl,  applied  herself  to  learning 
French  like  a  poor  but  ambitious  student. 

She  arranged  the  twenty-four  letters  of  the  French 
alphabet  in  three  rows,  on  a  large  sheet  of  paper, 

185 


and  learned  them  all  in  two  days.  Then  she  cut  a 
hole  in  another  sheet  of  paper  just  large  enough  to 
permit  a  single  letter  to  show  through,  and  slipped 
this  about  over  the  alphabet  at  random,  in  order 
to  make  sure  she  knew  the  different  letters  without 
regard  to  their  relative  positions.  In  two  weeks  she 
was  reading  fluently  in  a  child's  book  of  stories  I  had 
brought  her.  Of  course,  she  did  not  understand  all 
that  she  was  reading,  but  her  progress,  nevertheless, 
was  marvelous.  Since  then  I  have  taught  many 
persons  French,  but  never  one  who  learned  it  so 
quickly,  and  her  melodious  Turkish  accent  made  the 
French  very  sweet  to  hear. 

A  dressmaker  was  engaged  to  make  her  some 
European  clothes.  This  would  arouse  no  suspicion, 
since  Turkish  women  often  amused  themselves  by 
having  a  European  dress  or  two  made  for  indoor 
use.  And  I  was  to  buy  her  a  hat  and  a  veil.  "If  it 
is  not  becoming  to  me,  I  can  buy  another  in  Athens 
when  the  boat  stops  there,"  she  said. 

Our  plan  was  for  her  to  stay  all  winter  in  Paris, 
and  return  with  me  in  the  spring;  or  if  she  got  tired 
of  Paris,  to  return  with  me  at  Christmas.  Her  slaves 
were  devoted  to  her.  Leila  was  her  milk-sister,  and 
a  childless  widow,  and  knew  of  no  other  happiness 
than  to  serve  her  mistress;  and  Mihri,  who  was  the 
older  sister  of  Leila,  knew  of  no  other  happiness 
186 


than  to  serve  the  two  younger  women.  The  two 
sisters  were  to  stay  at  home  and  pretend  that  their 
mistress  was  ailing,  and  since  she  almost  never  went 
out  of  the  house,  or  received  any  one,  it  would  be  an 
easy  matter  to  hide  from  the  world  that  the  former 
wife  of  Nouri  Pasha  was  away  from  home. 

Our  talks  now  were  entirely  about  our  journey. 
Yet  there  were  times  when,  with  her  fingers  clasped, 
and  watching  the  ships  on  the  far  horizon,  she  would 
lose  herself  in  reverie.  Then  she  seemed  to  be  sud 
denly  inexplicably  sad.  Once  when  I  was  spending 
a  week-end  with  her,  she  passed  the  entire  afternoon 
gazing  at  the  sea,  her  face  immobile  and  lifeless. 

After  I  had  gone  to  bed  that  night,  she  came  to 
me  as  was  her  custom,  and  kneeled  by  me  to  kiss  me 
good-night.  Of  a  sudden  she  put  her  arms  around 
me,  and  said  quickly,  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  her  own 
words:  — 

"Yavroum,  have  you  ever  seen  Nouri  Pasha's 
children?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered;  "I  have  seen  them  all:  the 
three  little  girls,  and  the  tiny  little  boy." 

"Tell  me  about  them." 

I  told  her  all  I  knew,  and  especially  of  the  little 
man  who  was  less  than  a  year  old.  I  had  seen  him 
just  before  we  came  to  spend  the  summer  in  Pantich. 
His  mother  had  been  ill  ever  since  his  birth  and  could 

187 


not  nurse  him,  and  thus  he  had  a  French  nounou, 
who  wore  yards  and  yards  of  ribbon  on  her  bonnet. 

That  night  was  the  first  time  that  my  Lady  of  the 
Fountain  was  pathetically  human.  She  thirsted  for 
every  scrap  of  news  I  was  able  to  give  her  about 
these  children  who  were  not  hers,  but  the  man's  who 
had  put  her  aside.  When  she  left  me  she  did  not 
go  to  her  own  room,  but  downstairs,  and  I  heard 
her  opening  the  door  leading  out  on  the  terrace  be 
low.  Thinking  about  her  I  fell  asleep,  and  when, 
several  hours  later,  I  awoke  again,  the  pathos  of  her 
life  was  magnified  to  me  by  the  darkness  and  stillness 
of  the  night.  I  rose  from  my  bed,  and  went  to  her 
room,  to  tell  her  how  much  /  at  least  loved  her. 

She  was  not  there,  and  her  bed  was  undisturbed. 

Where  could  she  be?  I  crept  cautiously  down 
stairs,  and  through  the  open  doorway  out  on  the 
terrace.  She  sat  huddled  in  a  corner,  watching  the 
sea,  in  the  same  attitude  which  had  been  hers  all 
that  day.  Quietly  I  sat  down  beside  her,  my  arms 
stealing  around  her.  She  did  not  speak  to  me  at 
once,  and  when  she  did  her  voice  was  unsteady,  and 
shaking  with  unshed  tears. 

"Everything  has  a  purpose  in  life,  —  even  the 
stars  so  high  and  remote,  —  and  I  alone  am  pur 
poseless.  Just  because  I  lost  my  husband's  savage 
love,  I  left  him  —  without  a  word,  without  an  ex- 
188 


planation  —  as  if  the  brutal  side  of  life  were  all  that 
existed  between  man  and  woman.  If  I  had  stayed, 
in  spite  of  the  second  wife,  I  might  have  been  of  use 
to  him,  for  I  had  a  good  influence  over  him  —  and 
Allah  might  then  have  given  me  a  child."  She 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  "Allah!  I  am  so  use 
less  —  so  useless!"  she  moaned. 

The  silence  of  the  night  alone  answered  her,  and  I, 
having  no  words  to  comfort  her  grief,  took  one  of 
her  jasmine-scented  hands  and  kissed  it. 

Next  morning  my  Lady  of  the  Fountain  had  quite 
recovered  her  composure,  and  even  talked  of  her 
coming  Paris  escapade;  but  she  was  pale  and  worn 
out,  like  a  battered  ship  which  has  met  with  a  storm. 

A  few  days  later  I  came  to  bid  her  good-bye,  for 
this  time  /  was  going  with  my  mother  on  a  visit  to 
the  island.  She  put  her  arms  around  me  as  if  she  did 
not  wish  to  let  me  go.  Wistfully  she  said:  — 

"  When  you  are  on  the  island  could  you  go  to 
Nouri  Pasha's  house?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  go  and  see  the  little  boy.  Kiss  him,  and 
bring  me  a  kiss  from  him.  Will  you?" 

On  the  day  after  my  arrival  on  the  island  I  went 
to  the  pines,  where  all  the  children  are  taken,  but 
the  little  fellow  was  not  there.  The  nurses  of  his 
sisters  told  me  that  his  mother  was  worse,  and 

189 


wished  him  kept  in  the  garden  so  that  she  could  see 
him  from  the  window. 

Thereupon  I  went  to  Nouri  Pasha's  house.  The 
Breton  nurse  in  all  her  finery  was  seated  under  an 
awning,  the  baby  on  her  lap.  I  talked  with  her 
awhile,  and  begged  her  to  let  me  hold  the  baby, 
which  she  did.  It  was  a  sweet  baby,  and  strong. 

"Is  his  mother  better?"  I  asked. 

"She  will  never  be  better,  I  fear." 

Just  then  a  bell  rang  out  of  a  window  above  us, 
and  the  nurse  got  up  and  took  the  baby  from  me, 
saying:  — 

"That  is  for  me  to  take  him  to  his  mother." 

After  she  had  gone  I  picked  up  a  rattle  the  baby 
had  dropped,  to  give  it  to  some  one.  I  could  find  no 
one  around,  and  the  idea  came  to  me  to  keep  it  and 
take  it  to  my  Lady  of  the  Fountain. 

Two  days  later  when  I  entered  her  apartment 
and  presented  it  to  her,  saying  it  was  a  present  I  had 
brought  her  from  the  island,  she  took  it  and  examined 
it  with  a  puzzled  expression.  Being  a  European 
rattle,  she  did  not  know  what  it  was. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  it?"  she  asked. 

"To  play  with  it";  and  seeing  her  more  puzzled 
still,  I  explained  to  her  what  it  was,  and  how  I  had 
got  it. 

She  patted  it  affectionately.  " Pretty  little  toy!" 
190 


she  murmured;  "pretty  little  toy!    I  believe  it  is 
warm  yet  from  the  baby  touch. " 

Our  French  lessons  made  great  progress,  and  her 
preparations  for  Paris  were  completed.  The  scheme 
for  obtaining  a  passport  worked  without  a  hitch,  and 
word  had  come  from  the  convent  that  the  lady  could 
be  accommodated.  At  last  September  was  with  us, 
and  its  coming  that  year  was  cold  and  dreary.  The 
tramontane,  blew  daily,  the  flowers  lost  their  color 
and  perfume,  and  the  grass  turned  pale.  Already 
under  the  eaves  one  could  hear  the  bustling  swallows, 
and  on  a  particularly  cold  day  news  came,  somehow, 
that  Nouri  Pasha's  youngest  wife  was  dead. 

My  Lady  of  the  Fountain  wept  as  if  the  girl  had 
been  her  only  child;  and  between  her  tears  and  sobs 
she  kept  saying :  — 

"She  was  only  seventeen  —  and  beloved  —  and 
the  mother  of  a  boy.  And  now  she  is  dead,  leaving 
the  little  one  motherless.  How  cruel!  How  cruel! 
And  yet  Allah  must  be  just." 

After  this  event  a  great  change  came  over  her. 
She  was  not  sad,  since  it  is  forbidden  Turkish  women 
to  continue  their  sadness  for  more  than  a  day  or  two; 
yet  she  was  not  herself.  She  was  constantly  thinking, 
and  her  thoughts  were  not  restful.  I  felt  that  she 
did  not  wish  me  around,  and  stayed  away.  Then 

191 


she  sent  for  me.  I  found  her  in  her  own  room,  writ 
ing,  the  floor  littered  with  torn  paper. 

"Oh,  yavroum!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  am  trying  to 
compose  a  letter,  but  it  does  not  come.  I  have  never 
composed  one  before.  How  do  you  do  it?" 

"You  simply  say  what  you  have  to  say." 

"And  if  what  you  have  to  say  is  that  for  which 
your  heart  cries,  how  do  you  say  it  ?" 

"You  say  it  in  the  words  your  heart  uses." 

She  pondered  my  advice. 

"Yes,  yes,  you  are  right.  Make  no  phrases.  Just 
sit  down,  yavroum."  She  wrote  feverishly,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  gave  a  sigh.  "  It  is  done!" 

She  folded  the  paper  and  put  it  in  her  bosom.  She 
was  very  nice  to  me,  but  said  nothing  further  of  the 
letter,  and  refused  to  read  any  French. 

Leila  came  and  played  to  her,  and  I  went  home 
without  learning  anything  more  about  it.  As  it  was 
now  the  middle  of  September,  and  we  were  to  go  in 
ten  days,  I  had  my  own  preparations  to  make,  and 
did  not  see  my  friend  for  a  few  days. 

It  was  again  she  who  sent  for  me.  I  found  her 
flushed  and  excited.  She  took  me  in  her  arms  and 
kissed  me  with  unwonted  tenderness. 

"You  have  not  been  here  for  so  long,  yavroum, 
and  I  have  news  to  tell  you.  Nouri  Pasha  will  give 
me  the  little  boy.  The  French  woman  will  be  dis- 

IQ2 


missed,  and  I  shall  bring  him  up  like  an  Osmanli 
boy." 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  Paris  with  me?"  I  cried. 

"Oh,  no!  no!  I  stay  right  here.  Come  into  the 
house.  Come  and  see  how  ready  we  have  made  the 
rooms  —  ready  for  the  young  lion,  for  he  will  be 
here  soon. " 

We  went  all  over  the  house.  It  had  been  scrubbed 
and  cleaned  as  if  for  a  bridegroom.  Her  own  room 
had  new  curtains,  new  chintz  covers,  and  was  beauti 
fully  scented. 

"He  will  live  right  here  with  me  —  see!"  She 
pointed  to  a  cradle  placed  beside  her  bed.  Her  face 
flushed.  With  one  hand  she  touched  the  cradle 
timidly,  with  the  other  she  pressed  her  heart,  as  if 
to  keep  it  from  beating  too  fast. 

On  the  boy's  arrival,  the  house  was  wreathed 
and  decorated.  All  the  flowers  of  the  garden  were 
made  into  garlands,  and  festooned  outside  the  house 
from  window  to  window.  The  two  slaves  wore  new 
gowns. 

Leila  received  me.  "  Ewet,  ewet,  hanoum  effendi, 
the  young  lion  has  come.  He's  upstairs  with  his 
mother  —  and  she  is  good  to  look  at. " 

I  climbed  the  much-beribboned  stairs  —  for  all  the 
old  brocades  and  rare  Anatolian  shawls  were  draped 
over  the  banisters  —  and  went  to  my  lady's  room.  I 


found  her  seated  on  a  couch,  all  clad  in.  white  satin, 
holding  Nouri  Pasha's  son  fast  in  her  arms. 

"Come!  come!  yavroum,  come  to  see  him.  Isn't 
he  wonderful,  and  is  n't  Allah  good  to  me?" 

"He  is  a  nice  baby;  but  because  you  have  him 
you  will  not  go  to  Paris  with  me,  and  you  will  never, 
never  see  the  world." 

She  gazed  up  at  me  as  if  we  had  never  talked  of 
Paris.  "Oh,  yes,  Paris,"  she  murmured  dreamily. 
"That  was  for  my  selfish  pleasure.  But  now,"  she 
continued  with  a  thrill  in  her  voice,  "now  I  am  doing 
something  for  the  world." 

Her  face  shone  with  the  light  which  must  be 
lighted  from  the  divine  spark  within  us,  when  the 
self  is  effaced.  She  looked  more  than  ever  like  the 
Lady  of  the  Fountain  —  but  a  fountain  unlocked, 
and  giving  to  the  world  from  its  abundant  waters. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

CHAKEND£,  THE  SCORNED 

IT  was  dreary  going  away  to  Paris  without  my 
Lady  of  the  Fountain,  especially  since  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  to  have  her  with  me;  but  it  was  a  well- 
deserved  punishment  for  attaching  importance  to 
the  word  of  an  elder. 

The  following  two  years  were  years  of  little  to 
tell.  They  were  filled  with  studies  and  books,  and 
books  and  studies.  Black  clouds  were  already  thick 
ening  on  my  young  horizon,  and  I  knew  that  sooner 
or  later  I  should  have  to  encounter  the  storm.  I  had 
a  thousand  and  one  projects  for  my  life.  Above  all 
I  wanted  to  become  a  doctor  in  order  to  administer 
to  the  Turkish  women,  who  at  the  time  would  rather 
die  than  see  a  man  doctor.  I  lived  in  that  dream  of 
wonderful  usefulness  which  was  to  be  mine,  and 
which  was  to  save  me  from  the  martyrdom  of  the 
women  of  my  race. 

The  usual  fate  of  a  Greek  girl,  who  has  to  sit  and 
wait  until  a  marriage  is  arranged  for  her,  seemed  to 
me  the  worst  thing  that  could  befall  me.  And  if  the 
fate  of  the  Greek  girl  with  money  was  terrible,  what 
could  I  think  of  a  girl  like  me,  who  had  no  dowry? 
It  would  mean  a  ceaseless  plotting  of  all  my  female 

195 


relatives  to  capture  a  suitable  parti.  And  a  man 
would  be  a  suitable  parti  if  he  had  money  and  posi 
tion,  irrespective  of  any  other  qualifications. 

For  a  long  time  I  had  secretly  resolved  to  work 
and  fit  myself  to  make  my  own  life,  and  be  spared 
the  humiliation  of  being  delivered  over  by  my  family 
to  some  man  who  would  condescend  to  receive  me 
without  being  paid  for  it.  Thus  these  two  years  in 
Paris  were  years  of  hard  work  and  application.  I 
had  moments  of  intense  longing  for  Turkey  and  for 
my  old  life,  which  I  had  to  brush  aside  and  keep  on 
working.  Now  and  then,  inclosed  in  my  mother's 
letters,  came  epistles  from  Djimlah  and  Nash  an, 
but  I  never  heard  from  Chakende. 

At  the  end  of  two  years  my  mother  sent  for  me 
again.  Since  I  was  now  sixteen  years  old,  this  did 
not  presage  well  for  me.  I  knew  that,  as  a  penniless 
girl,  I  had  to  be  disposed  of  as  soon  as  possible.  The 
older  I  grew,  the  more  difficult  it  would  be  for  my 
female  relatives  to  make  a  match  for  me.  This  was 
the  sword  of  Damocles  hanging  over  me.  It  was  not 
that  I  was  averse  to  being  married.  On  the  contrary, 
in  my  most  adventurous  schemes  I  never  saw  myself 
an  old  maid.  I  had  the  inherent  hatred  of  the  Greeks 
for  that  word.  But  I  wanted  to  make  my  own  mar 
riage. 

I  considered  for  some  time,  before  returning  to 
196 


Constantinople.  I  seriously  contemplated  disobey 
ing  the  maternal  summons  and  escaping  to  America; 
for  America  always  rose  up  in  my  dreams  as  the 
land  of  salvation.  Ultimately,  I  knew  that  I  must 
go  there,  if  I  were  to  earn  my  own  living;  but  I  de 
cided  to  return  to  Constantinople.  The  longing  to 
see  it  again  was  strong  upon  me,  and  besides, 
my  brother  happened  to  be  there  at  this  time;  and 
so  long  as  he  was  there  I  hoped  that  I  should  not 
be  handed  over,  like  bargain -counter  goods,  to  any 
man. 

"Ashadnan  na  Mahomet  Rasoul  Allah  I 

"Bismallah/ 

"Allah-hu-akbar/" 

These  were  the  words  chanted  from  a  near-by 
minaret  in  the  shrill  sweet  voice  of  a  young  muezzin, 
as  I  emerged  from  my  compartment  of  the  Oriental 
Express,  in  Constantinople,  two  days  later.  My  soul 
answered  to  this  call  of  the  East.  I  felt  as  if  I  should 
like  to  throw  myself  on  a  prayer-rug,  face  Mecca, 
and  cry  with  the  young  muezzin,  "Allah-hu-akbar!" 
I  had  left  the  West  behind  —  I  was  again  in  the 
East,  the  enchanting,  poetical  East. 

This  feeling  was  strengthened  when,  on  reaching 
my  hotel,  I  found  a  letter  from  my  mother  telling 
me  not  to  come  to  our  home  on  the  island  that  day, 

197 


because  it  was  Tuesday,  as  ill-omened  a  day  with  the 
Greeks  as  Friday  is  with  the  rest  of  Europe. 

Indeed,  this  was  the  East  again  —  the  East  with 
its  cry  to  Allah,  and  its  predominating  superstitions. 
But  I  could  not  yet  feel  the  proper  respect  for  an 
cestral  superstitions.  I  had  the  arrogant  self-con 
fidence  of  youth  in  full,  and  as  youth  feels,  I  felt  that 
the  right  lay  with  my  own  inclinations.  It  was  a  hot 
and  oppressive  summer  day  in  town,  and  in  disregard 
of  maternal  displeasure,  I  decided  to  go  on  immedi 
ately  by  the  morning  boat. 

In  spite  of  the  heat  and  of  a  strange  feeling  of 
oppression  in  the  atmosphere,  I  went  on  foot  to  the 
Bridge  of  Galata,  in  order  that  I  might  revel  again 
in  the  crooked  streets  of  Constantinople,  hear  the 
merchants  cry  out  their  wares,  be  followed  by  some 
of  the  stray  dogs,  salute  my  old  friend  Ali  Baba, 
the  boatman,  and  thus  assure  myself  that  I  really 
was  again  in  my  beloved  city  on  the  Golden  Horn. 

By  the  time  I  had  bought  my  ticket  for  the  steamer, 
Paris  was  as  far  from  my  spirit  as  it  was  from  my 
flesh  —  and  the  superstitions  of  my  mother  no  longer 
seemed  unworthy  of  attention,  even  though  I  still 
persisted  in  pleasing  my  selfish  self.  The  idea  of  a 
happy  compromise  suggested  itself:  1  would  take 
the  boat  to  the  island,  but  instead  of  going  to  my 
home,  I  would  spend  the  day  at  my  cousin's,  at  the 
198 


other  end  of  the  island,  and  arrive  at  my  home  on 
the  following  day,  as  my  mother  had  requested. 

Thereupon,  in  pursuit  of  this  comfortable  arrange 
ment,  on  entering  the  boat,  instead  of  making  my 
way  to  the  first-class  deck,  where  men  and  Christian 
women  sit  together,  I  betook  myself  to  one  of  those 
private  little  rooms  which  exist  on  the  Mahshousettes 
boats  exclusively  for  the  convenience  of  aristocratic 
Turkish  ladies.  By  secluding  myself  in  one  of  these,  I 
effectually  avoided  the  risk  of  recognition  and  report. 

I  opened  the  door  of  one.  The  cabin  was  in  semi- 
obscurity,  and  occupied  by  three  veiled  ladies. 
However,  as  the  place  could  accommodate  four,  I 
entered.  It  was  their  privilege  to  ask  me  to  depart, 
if  they  did  not  care  for  the  company  of  an  unbeliever. 
I  sat  down  and  'waited  to  see  if  they  would  use  their 
prerogative.  To  my  surprise  a  lithe  young  woman 
rose  hastily  and  stood  before  me.  Her  two  slender 
and  tightly  gloved  hands  grasped  my  shoulders,  and 
a  pair  of  fine  eyes  peered  into  mine. 

"Why,  little  Thunderstorm!" 

Kferedje  enveloped  me,  and  my  lips  came  in  to  close 
contact  with  the  filmy  yashmak  of  Chakende  of  the 
Timur-Leng.  It  was  indeed  delightful  to  fall  in  thus 
with  her.  We  had  before  us  an  hour  and  a  half's  sail 
with  no  one  to  disturb  us;  for  the  other  two  women 
were  her  attendants  and  sat  without  saying  a  word. 

199 


We  spent  the  time  in  the  happiest  of  talk  about  the 
years  during  which  we  had  not  seen  each  other,  and 
during  which  we  had  left  behind  our  girlhood,  and 
crossed  the  threshold  of  womanhood;  for  in  the  East 
we  become  women  at  an  early  age. 

After  I  had  told  her  all  about  myself,  at  her  in 
sistence,  —  she  being  the  elder,  and  I  having  there 
fore  to  tell  my  story  first,  —  I  said:  - 

"You  are  married,  now,  I  suppose.  I  remember 
you  were  to  belong  to  a  young  man  in  Anatolia,  to 
whom  you  were  betrothed  when  you  were  an  hour 
old,  while  he  boasted  of  the  great  age  of  seven." 

She  sighed.  "  No,  I  am  not,  —  not  yet,  —  al 
though  I  am  getting  on  in  years. " 

"Why  are  you  waiting?"   I  inquired. 

All  my  French  manners  and  training  had  gone. 
I  was  again  delightfully  Oriental,  asking  personal 
questions  in  the  most  direct  way,  as  I  had  answered 
all  that  had  been  put  to  me. 

"It  is  quite  a  story,  and  we  are  nearly  there.  Since 
you  are  not  going  home,  why  not  come  to  my  house 
till  to-morrow,  where  I  can  tell  you  all  about  it?" 

"I  cannot,"  I  answered.  "I  must  go  to  my  rela 
tives,  or  there  will  be  too -much  rumpus,  if  I  am  dis 
covered.  " 

"Very  well,  then,  drive  with  me  first  to  my  house; 
I  will  leave  the  attendants  there,  tell  my  mother 
200 


where  I  am  going,  and  go  with  you.  In  this  way 
we  shall  have  the  whole  afternoon  together.  My 
attendants  can  call  for  me  in  the  evening." 

That  is  how  it  happened  that  on  reaching  the 
island  I  drove  in  a  closed  carriage  with  three  veiled 
ladies  to  the  haremlik  of  Djamal  Pasha,  and  after 
wards,  with  only  one,  arrived  at  my  cousin's  house. 

To  my  cousin  I  explained  my  plight  and  intro 
duced  Chakende  Hanoum.  There  was  no  one  at 
home  except  my  cousin  and  her  children.  After 
luncheon  Chakend6  and  I  went  into  the  guest-room, 
where  we  made  ourselves  comfortable  in  loose  gar 
ments.  She  braided  her  long,  thick  hair  in  two 
braids,  and  put  a  string  of  pearls,  like  a  ribbon,  over 
her  head.  She  had  clad  her  slim  young  figure  in  a 
loose,  white  pembezar,  made  quite  in  French  fashion. 
Cut  a  little  low  at  the  neck,  it  displayed,  besides 
another  string  of  pearls,  a  throat  full  and  white, 
beautiful  in  shape  and  in  its  youthful  freshness. 
She  was  so  good  to  look  upon  that  I  again  bethought 
me  of  the  man  for  whom  she  had  been  destined. 

"Now  tell  me  why  you  are  not  married,"  I  said. 

She  laughed,  and  sighed  again. 

"Because  he  will  not  have  me." 

"He— who?  "I  queried. 

"The  man  I  was  engaged  to  when  I  was  a  baby." 

"Upon  my  word!"  I  cried  with  indignation. 

201 


"Now,  Thunderstorm,  you  need  not  go  ahead  and 
blame  him.  His  reasons  are  excellent,  —  as  his  face  is 
kind  and  his  figure  straight,  like  a  cypress  tree. " 

"You  have  seen  him,  then?" 

"Yes,  he  has  been  in  Constantinople  for  the  past 
two  years,  and  I  have  seen  him  several  times  through 
the  lattices  of  my  window." 

"And  he  refuses  to  marry  you?" 

"So  he  does." 

"On  the  ground—  " 

"That  he  does  not  know  me.  You  see  he  is  tainted 
with  European  culture,  and  he  thinks  a  man  ought 
to  choose  his  own  wife.  I  was  chosen  for  him;  there 
fore,  he  does  not  wish  to  marry  me." 

"Why  don't  you  give  him  up  and  marry  some  one 
else?  There  are  plenty  who  would  be  glad  to  have 
you. " 

She  shook  her  head.  "It  so  happens  that  I  want 
him  and  no  one  else.  And  what  is  more, "  she  added 
illogically,  "I  respect  his  reasons.  He  says  that  he 
does  not  wish  to  be  married  to  a  woman  he  has  not 
seen,  and  of  whose  character  he  knows  nothing. " 

"Very  well,"  I  remarked.  "Since  you  respect  his 
reasons,  and  since  you  are  modern  enough  yourself, 
why  don't  you  try  to  meet  him  unveiled  somewhere 
and  have  a  chat  with  him?" 

Dubiously  she  shook  her  head  again.  "I  don't 
202 


know  how  to  manage  it.  He  does  not  go  to  the 
Christian  houses  to  which  I  go.  Besides,  none  of 
my  Greek  friends  would  care  to  take  the  risk  of 
arranging  to  have  us  meet." 

"I '11  do  it,  "I  declared. 

Her  face  flushed  with  pleasure.  "You  are  just  the 
same  madcap  as  ever.  Paris  has  n't  robbed  you  of 
any  of  your  spirit.  How  often  I  have  wished  you 
were  here  —  only  I  did  not  know  whether  you  had 
become  so  wise  that  you  would  not  do  foolish  things 
any  more. " 

For  some  time  we  discussed  the  matter,  though 
without  arriving  at  any  feasible  plan.  At  length  I 
left  her,  radiantly  cheerful,  and  went  into  the  nursery 
to  lie  down,  in  order  to  leave  the  guest-room  entirely 
to  her.  My  little  cousins,  three  in  number,  were 
already  on  their  beds,  and  I  stretched  myself  out 
on  the  divan. 

Instead  of  being  cooler  on  the  island,  the  oppres 
sion  of  the  atmosphere  was  more  intense.  There 
seemed  something  ominous  in  the  heavy  stillness  of 
the  air,  broken  only  by  the  noise  of  the  yelling  dogs 
in  the  distance. 

I  was  just  beginning  to  doze  off,  when  my  couch 
swung  to  and  fro  like  a  hammock. 

My  little  eight-year-old  cousin  raised  her  head 
from  her  bed  and  stared  at  me  across  the  room. 

203  , 


"Alkmeny!"  I  said  crossly,  "don't  shake  your 
bed,  child.  It  shakes  the  room  most  unpleas 
antly." 

"I  thought  it  was  you  shaking  the  room,"  the 
child  replied. 

Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  take  a  giant 
to  shake  the  huge  room.  It  was  the  second  story  of 
a  rock  house,  with  two-foot-thick  walls. 

The  room  shook  again,  so  violently  that  I  bit  the 
end  of  my  tongue,  and  for  the  moment  thought  of 
nothing  except  the  pain  of  it.  Then  it  grew  dark, 
like  dusk,  and  there  was  a  noise  as  if  hundreds  of 
baskets  of  walnuts  were  being  poured  down  the 
staircase.  In  the  thick  stone  walls  cracks  a  foot  wide 
appeared;  the  edges  trembled,  as  if  uncertain  whether 
to  fall  inside  or  out,  and  with  a  crash  came  together 
again. 

The  children  were  thrown  out  of  their  beds,  and  I 
gazed  at  them  passively.  At  this  instant  did  some 
past  incarnation  of  mine  say  the  word  " earthquake! " 
or  was  the  word  really  called  by  some  one  outside? 
All  I  know  is  that  "seismos!"  rang  in  my  ears,  and 
with  it  everything  I  had  ever  heard  about  earth 
quakes  flashed  into  my  mind.  "  Don't  walk  - 
crawl!"  was  the  first  thing;  and  obeying  it  I  dropped 
to  the  floor,  caught  up  the  youngest  child  in  my  arms, 
and  told  the  other  two  to  cling  to  my  gown.  Then, 
204 


in  a  sitting  position,  I  worked  my  way  out  of  the 
room  and  down  the  stairs. 

The  floor  was  waving  up  and  down,  but  we  man 
aged  to  get  down  the  short  flight  of  steps.  The  noise 
meanwhile  was  deafening,  and  the  darkness  in  the 
house  complete.  When  we  reached  the  front  door 
and  were  about  to  go  out,  one  of  the  maids  pushed 
me  violently  aside  and  dashed  out  herself.  A  part 
of  a  falling  chimney  struck  her  on  the  head,  and  she 
fell  to  the  ground,  quite  dead.  I  climbed  over  her 
body,  still  crawling,  with  the  child  in  my  arms.  My 
white  neglige  was  covered  with  the  maid's  blood, 
but  this  did  not  affect  me  at  the  time  in  the  least.  I 
crawled  on  and  on  while  the  terrific  noises  and  the 
shaking  continued,  always  remembering  that  the 
safest  place  was  the  middle  of  the  lawn  —  as  far  from 
the  house  as  possible.  The  children  were  holding 
tightly  to  my  dressing-gown,  and  they,  too,  were 
covered  with  the  dead  woman's  blood. 

As  we  were  scuttling  along  the  ground,  little  four- 
year-old  Chrysoula  cried  out:  "Cousin,  my  foot  is 
caught!"  One  of  the  cracks  in  the  earth  —  which 
was  opening  and  shutting  —  had  her  little  foot  im 
prisoned  ;  but  in  a  second  it  opened  again  and  her 
foot  was  free. 

Fortunately  the  house  was  surrounded  by  a  large 
open  lawn;  otherwise  we  might  have  been  killed  by 

205 


the  falling  trees.  In  the  middle  of  the  lawn  we  lay 
still,  fascinated  and  bewildered.  It  was  lighter  out 
here  in  the  open,  so  that  we  could  see  what  was  taking 
place.  I  was  not  consciously  afraid.  A  kind  of  ex 
altation  possessed  me  that  I  should  be  there  to  see 
the  wonderful,  ghastly  spectacle. 

The  Turks  say  that  during  an  earthquake  devils 
with  fiery  eyes  fly  about  the  sky.  And  surely  we 
saw  them,  only  they  must  have  been  huge  stones, 
hurled  into  the  air,  which  crashed  together,  giving 
forth  sparks  that,  for  the  fraction  of  a  second,  illu 
mined  their  dark  petrine  bodies.  One  of  those  devils 
fell  with  a  crash  on  the  stable.  It  went  through  the 
roof,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  entire  building  was 
ablaze. 

After  this  the  earthquake  proper  ceased,  but  the 
earth  still  trembled,  so  that  the  oldest  child  fell  over 
on  my  lap  two  or  three  times;  and  Chrysoula,  who 
was  sitting  comically  tilted  back  with  her  feet  in  the 
air,  —  her  one  thought  being  to  keep  them  from 
catching  again  in  the  earth-cracks,  —  would  tip  over, 
and  then  scramble  back  into  her  undignified  position. 

From  the  stable,  now  burning  like  a  bonfire,  a 
horse  dashed  madly  out.  He  was  making  directly 
for  us  when  he  fell,  and  lay  where  he  fell.  He  had 
stepped  into  an  earth-crack  and  broken  his  leg,  and 
had  to  be  shot  afterwards. 
206 


Meanwhile  the  noises  gradually  lessened;  but  the 
air  was  filling  with  smoke  and  the  smell  of  the  fires. 
My  cousin's  house  still  stood,  apparently  unhurt, 
except  for  the  chimneys;  but  what  a  devastation 
there  was  of  those  around  us!  They  were  mostly 
modern  with  new  anti-seismic  devices,  such  as  iron 
bands  around  them.  All  these  were  lying  in  ruins, 
the  irons  twisted  and  warped,  the  walls  shapeless 
heaps  of  stones,  beneath  which  were  buried  many  of 
those  who  had  loved  them  and  catted  them  home. 
The  old-fashioned  houses,  without  the  irons,  with 
stood  the  shocks  better.  When  afterwards  I  went 
into  my  cousin's  house,  I  found  that  most  of  the 
furniture  was  broken,  the  plastering  had  all  fallen, 
the  pictures  were  down,  and  the  cracks  in  the  walls 
had  not  come  together  smoothly. 

During  the  earthquake  we  saw  no  one,  except 
the  maid  that  had  been  killed.  After  an  interval 
Chakende,  whom  I  had  entirely  forgotten,  came  out 
of  the  house,  her  left  arm  bandaged  and  in  a  sling. 

"I  am  hurt,"  she  said  quietly,  sitting  down  be 
side  me;  "but  I  have  bandaged  it  up  and  it  is  all 
right.  I  am  troubled,  though,  about  my  people,  and 
it  will  be  some  time  before  it  will  be  possible  for 
me  to  go  to  them,  I  suppose. " 

Her  manner  was  subdued,  her  face  white,  her  eyes 
still  frightened. 

207 


What  seemed  a  very  long  time  passed  before  the 
people  began  to  come  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  houses. 
My  cousin  appeared,  crying  hysterically.  On  seeing 
her  children,  she  stopped  crying. 

"My  God!"  she  screamed,  "I  have  children!" 
She  had  totally  forgotten  about  them. 

A  few  hours  later  my  cousin's  husband  arrived 
from  Constantinople.  The  boats,  fortunately,  had 
not  been  injured  and  were  all  running.  He  was  an 
official  and  brought  out  with  him  three  young  men, 
his  subordinates,  two  Greeks  and  a  Turk.  They  told 
us  that  the  damage  in  town  was  even  worse  than  on 
the  islands,  so  that  we  could  expect  to  receive  no 
tents  from  the  Government  that  night. 

The  heat  of  the  day  had  changed  to  cold,  which 
in  our  nervous  condition  we  felt  severely,  and  the 
two  Greeks  set  about  building  a  fire  and  preparing 
something  for  us  to  eat. 

Chakende  went  up  to  the  young  Turk  and  spoke 
to  him;  then  she  came  to  me:  - 

"This  young  man  is  going  to  help  me  bury  the 
maid,"  she  said.  Both  to  me  and  to  the  Turk  she 
spoke  in  French,  but  it  was  not  a  day  to  think  of 
such  trifles.  "We  have  already  carried  her  into  the 
laundry-house,  and  now  we  shall  go  and  dig  a  grave. " 

Chakende  and  the  Turk  went  off  to  bury  the 
Christian  maid.  It  was  an  odd  fact  that  during  this 
208 


whole  earthquake,  while  all  other  nationalities  were 
thinking  of  the  living,  it  was  the  Turks  mostly  who 
thought  of  the  dead. 

When  they  came  back  to  me,  who  still  had  the 
care  of  the  children,  for  both  my  cousin  and  the 
maids  were  too  hysterical  to  attend  to  them,  Cha 
kende  said :  — 

"We  are  thinking  that  if  we  can  get  several  rugs 
we  can  put  up  some  kind  of  tents  for  the  children 
and  the  rest  of  us  to  sleep  under." 

"It -is  mademoiselle  who  thought  of  that,"  the 
young  Turk  said  with  admiration;  and  I  realized 
then  that  he  was  far  from  guessing  that  she  was  a 
Mussulman  girl;  for  Chakende,  having  nothing  to 
cover  her  face  with,  went  about  like  a  European. 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  I  assented,  "but  who  is 
going  to  get  the  rugs?  It  will  be  difficult  to  make 
any  one  go  into  the  house." 

"I  shall  go,"  Chakende  said. 

"Oh,  no,  mademoiselle!"  the  Turk  protested. 
"This  is  a  man's  work,  not  a  woman's.  It  is  a  danger 
ous  task,  and  besides,  rugs  are  heavy. " 

She  smiled.  "But  I  shall  go  along,  too.  Come, 
monsieur,  don't  lose  any  time.  The  earth  is  quiet  for 
the  present." 

They  left  me,  and  on  their  return  he  was  carrying 
a  heavy  pile  of  rugs,  while  Chakende  had  all  the  sheets 

209 


and  pillows  she  could  manage  with  her  uninjured 
arm.  The  two  of  them  proved  remarkable  tent- 
makers.  One  could  see  that  they  came  of  a  race 
which  for  centuries  had  lived  in  tents.  Not  only  did 
they  put  up  one  for  my  cousin's  family,  but  a  little 
one  for  Chakende  and  myself.  They  disappeared 
again,  and  returned  with  blankets.  They  made 
several  trips  into  the  house,  until  they  had  us  all 
fully  supplied  with  bedding.  For  one  reared  amid 
the  seclusion  of  a  harem  she  really  was  wonderful. 
Her  presence  of  mind,  her  fearlessness,  and  her  re 
sourcefulness  astonished  me,  engrossed  though  I  was. 

After  we  had  eaten  and  put  the  children  to  bed, 
Chakende,  the  young  Turk,  and  I  went  and  sat  off 
at  a  little  distance,  and  talked  over  the  events  of  the 
day.  None  of  us  had  any  desire  for  sleep,  although 
it  was  late.  The  earth  was  still  groaning  occasionally, 
and  it  was  unpleasant  to  lie  down,  since  one  could 
hear  hideous  rumblings  and  tremblings  which  gave 
one  a  curious  feeling  of  seasickness. 

"What  a  day!"  Chakende  exclaimed,  after  a  long 
silence.  There  was  a  certain  exhilaration  both  in 
the  voice  and  in  the  manner  of  the  girl.  She  seemed 
detached  from  the  awfulness  of  it  all,  in  spite  of  the 
bloody  wrappings  on  her  arm. 

The  Turk  hardly  took  his  eyes  from  her,  and  there 
was  no  mistaking  his  condition.  He  had  met  the 
210 


JJO* 


woman  he  was  to  remember  till  he  died,  whether 
he  ever  saw  her  again  or  not. 

Chakende"  did  not  look  in  his  direction.  She  sat 
erect,  her  head  held  proudly  above  her  lovely  throat. 
She  was  even  prettier  than  she  had  been  in  the  day 
time. 

Presently  the  young  man  spoke,  addressing  him 
self  to  her:  - 

"Mademoiselle,  we  have  worked  together  to-day, 
as  companions  —  as  friends.  I  should  like  you  to 
give  me  something  to  keep  for  the  rest  of  my  life. " 

"Monsieur  only  asks,"  she  replied,  without  look 
ing  at  him;  "he  does  not  offer  to  give  anything  to  be 
remembered  by. " 

It  was  a  weird  night,  one  of  those  nights  when 
people  cannot  be  conventional.  In  my  place  I  made 
myself  very  small,  trying  to  forget  I  was  present, 
as  the  two  seemed  to  forget  me. 

"I,  mademoiselle?"  repeated  the  man,  in  a  voice 
full  of  emotion.  "I  have  given  you  to-day  all  that 
is  best  in  me.  And  whatever  my  life  may  become, 
that  best  will  always  belong  to  you. " 

"And  in  exchange,  monsieur  asks?"  Chakende 
said,  still  not  turning  toward  him. 

"I  only  ask  your  name,  mademoiselle.  I  should 
like  to  repeat  it  daily  —  to  have  it  be  the  nectar  of 
my  soul." 

211 


"Since  monsieur  asks  so  little,  it  would  be  cruel 
to  deny  him." 

She  turned  slowly  around  till  her  eyes  met  his. 
Distinctly  she  said:  - 

"  My  name  is  Chakende,  and  I  am  known  as  the 
only  daughter  of  Djamal  Pasha. " 

The  young  man  gave  a  start.  "You  are  —  ? 
You  are  — ?" 

She  nodded.  "The  woman  you  have  scorned  for 
the  past  two  years."  She  turned  away,  and  gazed 
out  into  the  darkness.  In  a  minute  she  rose.  "  Come, 
Thunderstorm,"  she  said  to  me,  "I  think  we  might 
as  well  go  to  our  tent. " 

The  young  Turk  rose,  too,  and  barred  her  way 
respectfully. 

"Hanoum  Effendi,"  he  said,  speaking  in  Turkish 
now,  "I  love  you.  Will  you  be  my  wife?" 

"Does  the  effendi  think  it  would  be  so  great  an 
honor?"  she  asked,  with  a  little  catch  in  her  voice. 

"It  would  be  an  honor  for  me;  it  would  give  me 
the  privilege  of  worshiping  you,  of  protecting  you, 
of  taking  away  all  thorns  from  your  path,  and  of 
strewing  it  with  roses.  I  ask  to  be  allowed  to  be  your 
servant,  as  you  are  the  mistress  of  my  soul. " 

"The  effendi  speaks  very  beautifully,"  she  com 
mented. 

"I  love  you!"  he  cried.   "I  love  you!" 
212 


She  gave  him  her  right  hand,  and  he,  bending  as  a 
worshiper,  touched  it  with  his  lips ;  then  as  a  man  he 
drew  her  to  him,  and  covered  her  hair  and  her  eyes 
and  her  lips  with  his  kisses. 

When  Chakende  and  I  retreated  to  the  little  tent 
arranged  for  us,  the  young  Turk  lay  down  on  the 
ground  outside,  across  the  doorway.  Chakende  on 
her  rug  prayed  to  Allah,  her  uninjured  arm  up- 
stretched  with  the  palm  toward  heaven.  After  she 
had  finished  she  turned  to  me. 

"Dear  little  Thunderstorm, "  she  said,  "it  has  been 
a  horrible  day,  a  devastating  day,  a  life-taking  day, 
but  ah !  —  to  me  it  has  been  the  most  wonderful  day 
of  my  life." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A    GREAT   LADY  OF   STAMBOUL 

THE  earthquake  subsided,  and,  little  by  little  peo 
ple  began  to  forget  its  terrors.  Some  who  had  old- 
fashioned  houses  plucked  up  courage  to  enter  them; 
then  to  abandon  their  tents  and  stay  in  them.  One 
day  some  young  people  laughed,  and  others  echoed 
their  laughter.  Gradually  the  older  people  began  to 
laugh,  too;  and  the  terrible  shock  which  had  killed 
so  many  thousands  and  unnerved  so  many  more 
began  to  lose  its  hold  over  the  imagination  of  the 
people. 

Before  the  month  was  over,  life  became  normal, 
and  we  talked  of  ordinary,  everyday  things.  One 
day,  as  I  was  sitting  by  my  mother,  making  lace, 
she  casually  remarked:  - 

"Nashan  is  to  be  married,  you  know." 

Of  all  my  Turkish  friends  Nashan  was  the  one 
my  mother  liked  best.  Perhaps  this  was  because 
she  felt  that  she  had  had  a  share  in  her  bringing 
up,  since  the  day  on  which  she  had  been  summoned 
by  Nashan's  mother  to  pass  judgment  on  the  little 
girl's  clothes  —  the  little  girl  whose  raiment  I  had 
compared  to  that  of  a  saltimbanque,  when  she  had 
thought  that  she  was  dressed  like  a  great  lady. 
214 


"Oh!  is  she?"  I  cried,  a  trifle  hurt.  "She  had  not 
even  written  me  that  she  was  engaged.  I  am  afraid 
she  cannot  care  for  her  marriage. " 

I  hastened  to  call  on  her.  She  received  me  in 
her  French  boudoir,  faultlessly  dressed  in  a  Parisian 
gown,  her  hair  done  in  the  coiffure  prevalent  in 
Europe  at  the  time.  We  were  so  glad  to  see  each 
other  that  at  first  we  forgot  about  the  marriage. 
Finally  I  asked  about  it. 

Boundless  became  her  indignation.  "He  is  an 
Asiatic,"  she  cried,  with  undisguised  horror.  "They 
are  giving  me  to  a  man  who  cannot  understand  a 
word  of  French  —  to  a  man  who  is  an  arriere  —  who 
believes  in  the  subjection  of  women !  They  are  hand 
ing  me  over  to  an  unknown,  who  has  not  touched  my 
heart,  —  merely  because  our  fathers  decided  that 
we  should  become  husband  and  wife.  And  this 
Anatolian  —  this  man  who  has  lived  all  his  life  in  an 
uncivilized  country  —  has  come  to  claim  me  —  me, 
as  his  wife." 

Since  her  indignation  could  rise  no  higher,  it 
toppled  over  in  a  torrent  of  tears.  She  laid  her  blond 
head  in  my  lap,  and  wept.  And  I  wept  with  her, 
because  she  was  eighteen  and  I  was  sixteen,  and  life 
seemed  so  full  of  tragedy.  How  dreadful  the  world 
looked  to  us  in  that  hour  —  and  how  we  hated  our 
elders. 

215 


She  had  lost  her  mother,  her  only  supporter,  as, 
long  ago,  I  had  lost  my  father.  We  had  an  orgy  of 
tears,  which  cleared  the  atmosphere,  and  helped  the 
barometer  to  rise.  The  courage  of  youth  returned 
to  us. 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do?"  I  asked. 

"I  thought  of  dying,"  she  said  simply,  "but  I 
don't  want  to.  I  hate  to  die.  Life  is  so  interesting, 
and  I  am  so  healthy."  Inconsequentially  she  added: 
"Come  and  see  my  trousseau." 

No  French  girl  could  have  had  a  Frenchier  one. 
No  Parisian  a  more  Parisian  one.  If  the  father  was 
imposing  an  Anatolian  husband  upon  her,  he  was 
generous  in  his  supply  of  European  accessories.  She 
and  I  forgot  our  troubles  in  admiring  and  gloating 
over  the  creations  just  arrived  from  Paris. 

"And  now  look!"  she  cried,  in  a  tone  of  loathing. 
She  opened  a  closet  and  drew  forth  a  chest,  richly 
inlaid.  From  its  heart  she  took  several  garments: 
they  were  Anatolian  —  even  more  Oriental  than  if 
they  had  been  Turkish.  She  threw  them  on  the 
floor,  and  stamped  upon  them.  "His  grandmother 
is  insulting  me  with  these.  She  thinks  that  is  the  way 
I  dress  —  I,  a  European  to  my  finger-tips. " 

I  picked  up  the  despised  garments  and  examined 
them  with  curiosity  mingled  with  admiration.  The 
straight,  stiff  tunics  of  homespun  silk,  the  jackets 
216 


reaching  below  the  knees,  spun  by  hand  and  fan 
tastically  'embroidered  in  a  riot  of  color,  were  full 
of  Oriental  poetry. 

"But  they  are  truly  lovely,"  I  cried.  "They're 
better  than  your  French  clothes.  Any  woman  would 
look  adorable  in  them.  I  wish  you  would  wear  them. " 

Nashan  only  snatched  them  from  my  hands  and 
stamped  on  them  again. 

As  the  date  of  her  marriage  drew  near,  I  heard 
there  were  scenes  of  rebellion  and  tears  of  helpless 
ness,  but  her  father  held  fast  to  his  purpose,  and  the 
marriage  took  place.  I  did  not  go  to  it.  I  was  en 
grossed  with  my  own  troubles  at  the  time,  and  be 
sides,  I  did  not  wish  to  be  present  at  what  I  con 
sidered  the  immolation  of  a  woman. 

Two  days  after  the  wedding,  a  note  reached  me 
from  her,  saying:  "Will  you  come  and  spend  the 
day  with  me?" 

I  went  to  her  new  home  in  Stamboul  —  fortunately 
void  of  his  relatives,  since  these  all  lived  in  Anatolia. 
She  was  seated  in  a  vast,  bare,  Oriental  room  which 
contrasted  strangely  with  her  French  gown  and 
Parisian  coiffure.  There  were  no  traces  of  tears  on 
her  face  such  as  I  had  expected  to  find;  her  pupils 
only  seemed  larger,  and  her  eyes  were  shining  with 
a  combativeness  which  I  had  felt  was  in  her,  but 
which  I  had  not  encountered  before. 

217 


Silently  we  embraced  each  other. 

"Is  he  dreadful  ?"  I  whispered. 

"I  don't  even  know  how  he  looks,"  she  replied. 
"I  have  not  favored  him  with  a  glance.  He  has  not 
been  able  to  make  me  speak  to  him,  and  you  know 
that,  according  to  our  laws,  so  long  as  I  remain 
silent,  he  has  no  rights  over  me. " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  keep  it  up,  till  he  becomes  dis 
couraged  and  divorces  you?" 

Before  she  had  time  to  answer,  one  of  her  slaves 
came  in. 

"The  tcheleU  [master]  is  asking  if  he  may  see 
you. " 

I  rose  to  go  from  the  room. 

"Don't  go,"  she  begged. 

I  sat  down,  a  very  uncomfortable  little  person. 
Nashan  crossed  her  slender  hands  on  her  lap  and 
waited.  Her  eyes  were  firmly  fixed  on  the  floor;  her 
lips  compressed,  as  for  eternal  silence. 

He  came  in.  I  do  not  know  why  I  expected  to  see 
a  grown-up  man,  with  man's  tyrannical  power 
stamped  on  his  brutal  features.  What  entered  was 
a  boy,  a  timid  mustache  sprouting  on  his  lip.  He 
was  tall  and  good-looking,  but  paralyzed  with  shy 
ness.  He  looked  at  nothing  except  his  wife,  and  his 
face  shone  with  all  the  love  he  felt  for  her,  with  all 
the  dreams  he  must  have  made  about  this  one 
218 


woman,  whom  he  had  never  seen  till  the  day  of  his 
wedding. 

We  are  apt  to  think  only  of  the  woman's  side, 
and  few  of  us  ever  give  a  thought  to  what  may 
be  the  man's  disappointment,  the  man's  crushed 
ideals,  in  his  marriage.  Because  he  bears  it  like 
a  man,  because  he  makes  the  best  of  what  fate  has 
allotted  him,  often  without  a  word  of  complaint, 
we  think  that  the  tragedy  of  marriage  is  entirely 
one-sided. 

That  day,  as  the  young  fellow  came  in,  shy  and 
awkward,  carrying  a  small  bundle  in  his  hand,  pre 
judiced  though  I  was  against  him,  I  somehow  felt 
that  there  was  his  side,  too.  Perhaps  it  was  his 
extreme  youth,  his  good  looks,  which  touched  me; 
or  perhaps  it  was  the  expression  of  misery  on  his 
face.  Poets  and  writers  have  written  about  the 
woman's  heart-break,  but  it  is  the  sorrow  of  the 
strong  which  contains  the  most  poetry  and  pathos. 

He  timidly  took  his  seat  at  a  distance  from  her, 
and  fingered  the  little  parcel  on  his  knee.  An  op 
pressive  silence  fell  upon  us,  I  furtively  watching  the 
youth,  he  longingly  gazing  at  his  bride.  Finally  he 
began  to  undo  his  parcel,  and  his  movements  were 
so  like  those  of  a  little  boy  that  I  was  ready  to  weep 
for  him.  The  parcel  disclosed  a  beautifully  embroid 
ered  pair  of  Turkish  slippers.  I  suppose  they  were 

219 


the  prettiest  he  could  buy,  but  even  at  a  glance  I 
knew  that  they  were  far  too  large  for  Nashan. 

He  rose  and  advanced  timidly,  his  offering  in  his 
hand. 

"I  brought  you  these,"  he  said  pleadingly.  He 
looked  at  the  slippers  and  then  at  her.  "They  were 
so  lovely  I  could  not  help  buying  them  for  you." 

He  sat  down  on  the  floor  at  her  feet,  and  tried  to 
bring  the  slippers  within  her  notice. 

"  Let  me  put  them  on  your  pretty  feet, "  he  begged. 

She  neither  replied  nor  by  the  slightest  move 
ment  betrayed  that  she  was  aware  of  his  existence. 
She  was  sitting  on  a  chair,  like  a  European.  Her 
knees  were  crossed,  and  one  foot  dangled  before  him, 
as  if  inviting  the  new  slippers.  By  a  tremendous 
effort  he  summoned  up  courage  to  slip  the  Turkish 
slipper  on  her  foot,  over  the  French  shoe,  and  even 
then  it  was  too  large.  It  hung  suspended  for  a 
minute  from  her  unresponsive  toe,  and  fell  to  the 
floor. 

I  laughed,  more  from  nervousness  than  from 
mirth. 

He  turned  a  troubled,  inquiring  countenance  to 
ward  me,  and  then  back  to  his  wife. 

"Why  is  she  mocking  me?  Have  I  done  anything 
ridiculous?" 

He  appeared  more  than  ever  like  a  f 

220 


little  boy.  He  leaned  toward  her  as  if  he  wished  to 
hide  behind  her  skirt,  every  movement  seeming  to 
beg  for  protection.  The  stony  expression  went  from 
Nashan's  face.  She  no  longer  ignored  his  existence. 
What  was  fine,  womanly,  maternal  in  her  character 
became  alive. 

She  put  her  arm  around  his  shoulder. 

"Why  are  you  laughing?"  she  demanded  quietly 
of  me  in  French.  "If  he  were  a  Christian  dog,  he 
would  have  known  many  women,  and  he  would  be 
aware  of  the  sizes  of  their  feet.  But  he  is  only  a 
clean  Osmanli  boy,  and,  as  you  see,  I  am  the  first 
woman  he  has  ever  seen,  beside  his  mother. " 

It  was  a  new  Nashan:  not  the  Europeanized 
Nashan,  with  her  foreign  veneer;  but  a  real  woman, 
the  one  who  had  once  said  to  me,  "I  am  sure  of  the 
existence  of  Allah,  because  he  manifests  himself  so 
quickly  in  me."  Unmistakably  at  that  moment  God 
was  manifesting  himself  in  her. 

I  rose  to  go.  She  rose,  too,  and  so  did  the  man,  who 
had  picked  up  his  slippers  and  held  them  fast  to  his 
heart.  He  had  not  understood  a  word  of  the  French 
that  had  passed  between  us. 

"I  bought  you  these  because  I  thought  maybe 
you  would  like  them,"  he  repeated. 

"I  like  them  very  much,  indeed,"  she  said,  taking 
them  from  him. 

221 


"They  are  not  so  pretty,  perhaps,  as  the  ones  you 
have  on;  but  they  are  exactly  like  those  my  dead 
mother  used  to  wear,  when  I  was  a  little  boy  and 
played  on  her  lap." 

She  listened  to  him  attentively,  deferentially,  her 
eyes  raised  to  his.  Then  she  turned  to  me,  who  was 
already  going. 

"Don't  go  just  yet,  dear.  I  beg  of  you  to  remain 
a  few  minutes."  To  her  husband:  "My  lord,  will 
you  make  my  friend  feel  at  home,  while  I  am  gone 
a  little  while?  I  have  just  been  hard  to  her,  because 
she  was  rude  to  you ;  but  I  do  not  think  she  meant 
to  be." 

Nashan  was  gone  from  the  room  only  a  short 
time,  yet  I  hardly  recognized  her  on  her  return.  She 
was  dressed  in  one  of  the  Oriental  gowns  his  grand 
mother  had  sent  her,  and  which  she  had  despised 
and  trampled  upon.  Her  French  coiffure  had  disap 
peared.  A  Turkish  veil  was  arranged  on  her  head,  in 
the  strict  Oriental  fashion  for  indoors,  and  on  her 
feet,  somehow,  she  had  fastened  his  slippers. 

She  bowed  low  before  her  husband. 

"These,  my  master,  are  the  garments  your  honor 
able  grandmother  sent  me.  I  hope  you  like  me  in 
them." 

He  could  not  speak,  nor  was  there  any  need;  for 
his  face  was  a  worshipful  prayer. 
222 


She  turned  to  me  with  a  proud  little  toss  of  her 
head. 

"Am  I  a  great  lady?"  she  asked,  as  of  old,  with 
whimsical  seriousness,  "or  am  I  a  saltimbanque  ? " 

"You  are,  indeed,  a  great  lady,"  I  said,  —  and  I 
meant  it. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  INVENTIVENESS   OF   SEMMEYA  HANOUM 

IT  was  from  curiosity  rather  than  from  friendship 
that  I  accepted  Semmeya  Hanoum's  pressing  invi 
tation  to  spend  a  few  days  with  her,  shortly  after 
Nashan's  wedding.  As  I  said  in  a  previous  chapter, 
we  had  never  looked  on  Semmeya  as  one  of  us.  We 
did  not  trust  her;  and  where  there  is  no  trust,  how 
can  there  be  friendship?  Still,  since  I  was  burning  to 
know  what  sort  of  a  wife  she  had  made,  I  replied  to 
her  invitation  with  alacrity. 

I  did  not  have  to  wait  very  long  before  I  knew 
that  Semmeya  Hanoum  was  the  same  as  ever  —  that 
she  would  rather  cheat  than  play  fair.  She  was  the 
mother  of  a  dear  little  boy,  and  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  Sendi  Bey  was  the  slave  of  his  wife;  at  the  same 
time  it  required  no  cleverness  on  my  part  to  discover 
that  he  did  not  trust  her,  and  did  not  believe  her  word. 

I  have  always  wondered,  and  I  suppose  that  I 
shall  continue  to  wonder  till  I  die  and  learn  the  ex 
planation  of  many  riddles,  how  it  is  that  a  good, 
upright  man  can  remain  in  love  with  a  woman  whom 
he  cannot  trust.  On  the  contrary,  it  often  seems  as 
if  the  less  confidence  a  man  has  in  his  wife,  the  more 
in  love  with  her  he  remains. 
224 


On  the  second  morning  of  my  arrival,  Nature 
outside  was  making  herself  beautiful  as  if  to  pose 
for  her  portrait.  We  had  finished  our  breakfast  and 
were  sitting  on  a  couch  together  when  her  husband 
came  in,  a  dark  cloud  on  his  forehead.  He  gave  his 
wife  a  severe  look,  which  Semmeya  met  with  the 
candor  of  an  angel. 

"I  am  delighted  to  see  you  so  early,  my  Bey 
Effendi,"  she  said  sweetly.  "I  hope  you  have  slept 
well";  and  as  he  remained  standing,  she  continued: 
"Won't  you  sit  down  by  us,  my  effendi?" 

"Beauty!"  thundered  the  man,  "why  did  you 
misbehave  yesterday  afternoon,  while  you  were  out 
driving?  " 

An  expression  of  utter  amazement  overspread  her 
features. 

"Don't  trouble  yourself  to  deny  it  —  you  know 
that  it  is  true,"  the  husband  continued,  striving  to 
master  his  anger. 

She  shrugged  her  slim  shoulders,  and  the  imperti 
nent  movement  was  attractive.  Intrinsically  she 
was  not  a  beautiful  woman,  but  she  had  charm,  and 
the  man  speaking  to  her  was  in  love  with  her.  And 
she  knew  it. 

"You  know  you  did  it,"  he  persisted. 

Impatiently  she  tapped  the  floor  with  her  satin- 
clad  foot.  I  hate  to  witness  marital  disagreements, 

225 


so  I  rose  to  go;  but  Semmeya  caught  my  dress  and 
imperiously  pulled  me  back  into  my  seat. 

"Beauty,"  the  man  reiterated,  with  rising  anger, 
"you  know  you  did  it." 

She  continued  to  look  out  of  the  latticed  window, 
down  on  the  waters  of  the  Golden  Horn.  Her  profile 
was  turned  to  her  husband.  This  was  the  prettiest 
view  of  her,  and  the  one  she  always  presented  to  him 
when  she  wished  to  dominate  him  —  she  told  me  so 
herself.  Her  wavy  hair  was  loosely  combed  on  her 
neck,  and  a  red  rose  was  carelessly  placed  a  little 
below  her  pretty  ear.  She  was  dressed  in  a  soft  green 
silk  garment,  the  diaphanous  sleeves  displaying  her 
well-shaped  arms.  Her  slim  but  well-rounded  neck 
was  bare,  and  one  could  see  that  she  was  in  temper 
by  the  way  the  veins  stood  out  on  her  throat. 

"You  did  it,  Beauty,"  the  man  persisted  in  an 
even  monotone  that  sounded  like  the  approach  of 
the  storm. 

I  rose  for  the  second  time  to  go,  but  the  hand, 
more  imperious  than  before,  pulled  me  down  again; 
then  the  owner  of  the  hand  snapped  out:  - 

"Since  you  believe  the  word  of  the  eunuch  against 
mine,  and  you  are  so  certain  I  did  it,  why  do  you 
wish  me  to  verify  it?  Begone,  man!  begone!" 

"But  I  want  you  to  tell  me  why  you  threw  the 
flowers  at  the  Englishman, "  her  husband  demanded. 
226 


He  turned  to  me  and  asked,  "Do  you  think  it  is  nice 
for  a  woman  to  throw  flowers  at  a  strange  man?" 

Before  I  could  reply,  she  calmly  said,  "It  is  not 
true." 

"That  you  threw  flowers  at  a  man?" 

She  nodded. 

"Did  she  or  did  she  not?"  he  asked  me. 

"She  did,"  I  answered. 

"You  wretch!"  Semmeya  Hanoum  cried.  "I  only 
threw  a  rose,  and  a  rose  is  singular,  not  plural.  Be 
sides,  how  do  you  know  that  I  threw  it  at  the  man? 
I  might  have  just  thrown  it  away  —  and  it  might 
have  happened  to  strike  his  face  by  accident. " 

"I  suppose  you  happened  to  kiss  the  rose  by 
accident,  too?"  Sendi  Bey  inquired  grimly. 

"Why  not?  I  often  kiss  roses."  She  looked  at 
him  with  laughing  defiance.  "And  now  what  will 
you  do,  my  lord?" 

"I  should  like  to  give  you  a  good  thrashing." 

"You  can't.  It  is  forbidden  by  the  Koran." 

"I  know  it,  and  I  am  very  sorry.  But,  Beauty, 
your  actions  are  getting  unbearable ;  and  I  am  going 
to  put  a  stop  to  them.  For  a  month  you  are  not  to 
leave  this  house  without  my  permission."  With 
these  words  he  marched  out  of  the  room. 

She  turned  to  me.  "I  should  like  to  find  out 
whether  he  will  really  give  orders  that  I  am  not  to 

227 


leave  the  house.  Make  ready  to  go  out,  and  we  shall 
see." 

She  was  waiting  for  me  with  a  slave  when  I  went 
to  her  room,  and  together  we  went  down  the  hall. 
There  stood  the  eunuch  with  his  back  to  the  door, 
looking  determined  to  die  at  his  post,  if  necessary. 

"Silly,  come  with  us.  We  are  going  out  for  a 
walk,"  Semmeya  said  casually. 

He  salaamed  to  the  floor,  but  did  not  stir.  She 
spoke  to  him  more  sharply,  and  again  he  salaamed. 
No  matter  what  she  said,  he  salaamed. 

Ignominiously  at  last  we  retreated  to  her  room. 
She  sat  down  and  pondered  over  the  situation  earn 
estly.  For  once,  I  thought,  she  would  have  to 
acknowledge  herself  beaten. 

At  length  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  I  looked  up 
expectantly,  but  she  only  told  me  to  take  off  my 
wraps,  since  we  should  be  unable  to  go  out.  She 
stepped  out  of  the  room,  and  I  heard  her  whispering 
to  her  slave  outside.  Presently  she  reentered  the 
room  briskly. 

"When  the  eunuch  comes  up,  tell  him  to  wait  a 
minute,  if  I  am  not  here.  And  meanwhile  make 
yourself  as  comfortable  as  you  can." 

I  took  a  French  novel  from  the  table,  became 
interested  in  it,  and  had  quite  forgotten  our  state 
of  siege  when  the  eunuch  spoke  to  me. 
228 


"Wait  a  minute,"  I  answered,  hardly  hearing 
what  he  had  said.  "Semmeya  Hanoum  will  be  back 
in  a  minute." 

He  took  up  his  station  in  the  doorway,  command 
ing  both  the  room  and  the  hall,  and  waited,  listening 
intently.  After  a  long  while  he  went  downstairs. 

Again  I  was  absorbed  in  my  book  when  the  eunuch 
returned,  panting  and  frightened. 

"My  mistress!  My  mistress!"  he  shouted. 

"What  is  it,  stupid?  What  has  happened  to  your 
mistress?" 

"She  has  gone!" 

"Gone  where?" 

"Away!  Out  of  the  house!"  he  wailed.  "She  has 
outwitted  both  of  us  —  myself  and  Yussuf  at  the 
gate  of  the  garden.  He  was  called  away  for  a  minute, 
and  when  he  came  back,  my  mistress  had  disap 
peared.  Ai !  ai !  it  was  magic. " 

"Well,  don't  stand  there  wailing;  run  and  tell 
your  master,"  I  said  impatiently. 

He  looked  at  me  in  abject  terror.  "My  master! 
I  dare  not.  He  would  kill  me. " 

"Then  send  for  him,  and  I  will  tell  him." 

"And  you  will  tell  him  that  I  faithfully  obeyed  his 
orders,"  he  implored,  "and  that  she  did  not  escape 
through  any  negligence  on  my  part?" 

Even  after  I  had  reassured  him  on  these  points, 

229 


he  departed  trembling,  and  I  went  down  to  the  parlor 
to  await  Sendi  Bey.  In  a  few  minutes  he  came,  and 
I  told  him  what  had  happened.  He  cross-examined 
me,  became  convinced  that  I  knew  nothing  of  his 
wife's  movements,  and  sent  for  the  unhappy  man  at 
the  gate,  Yussuf. 

"Why  did  you  not  run  after  your  mistress?"  he 
demanded  sternly. 

"I  did,  Your  Excellency,  but  she  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen.  There  was  not  a  house  where  she  could  have 
entered,  or  a  place  where  she  could  have  hidden; 
but  she  was  not  in  sight.  I  do  not  see  how  she  could 
have  run  so  fast.  It  is  magic!" 

Sendi  Bey  dismissed  the  man,  then  called  the 
slaves  and  the  eunuch,  and  ordered  them  to  search 
the  house,  which  they  did  without  result.  Then  he 
gave  orders  that  no  one  was  to  enter  or  leave  the 
house  without  his  permission,  and  that  when  the 
mistress  returned  she  was  to  wait  at  the  gate  till 
he  had  spoken  to  her. 

After  we  were  alone  together  again,  he  exclaimed 
gleefully:  "For  once  she  has  put  herself  in  my  power. 
On  her  return  I  shall  go  to  the  gate  and  make  my 
conditions,  and  if  she  does  not  agree  to  them,  she 
cannot  come  in. " 

"But  suppose  she  does  not  agree  to  them,  and 
prefers  not  to  come  in?"  I  asked. 
230 


He  laughed.  "For  once,"  he  repeated,  "she  has 
put  herself  in  my  power.  If  she  does  not  agree,  she 
will  lose  all  her  rights  over  her  boy,  since  she  left 
the  house  against  my  orders.  She  loves  the  boy,  and 
she  will  agree.  Now  is  the  time  to  put  an  end  to  her 
coquettishness. " 

Whatever  satisfaction  Sendi  Bey  and  the  absent, 
rebellious  Semmeya  Hanoum  might  find  in  the  situa 
tion,  for  me  it  was  rather  uncomfortable.  I  was  not 
able  to  go  even  into  the  garden,  and  ate  a  solitary 
luncheon  and  then  dinner,  all  the  slaves  being  at 
their  posts  to  prevent  any  entry  or  egress.  After 
finishing  my  novel,  I  was  just  preparing  to  go  to  bed 
when  a  slave  come  to  me. 

My  master  would  like  to  see  you  downstairs,  if 
you  will  be  so  good, "  she  said. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  parlor  when  I  arrived 
there,  but  presently  the  master  came  in  from  the 
selamlik. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  nothing,"  I  replied.  "I  am  perfectly  com 
fortable,  although  the  situation  is  not. " 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"Why  did  you  send  for  me?" 

"  I  did  n't.  I  was  told  that  you  wished  to  see  me. " 

"There  must  be  some  mistake,"  he  said,  and 
pulled  the  velvet  rope  of  the  bell.  As  if  in  answer  to 

231 


the  ring,  in  sauntered  Semmeya  Hanoum,  as  cool  as 
a  cucumber,  cigarette  in  hand,  and  apparently  just 
back  from  her  expedition,  since  she  still  had  on  her 
street  costume. 

We  both  stared  at  her  in  amazement. 

"Hullo,  Blossom,"  she  said  to  me;  "sorry  to 
have  left  you  alone  all  day. " 

She  elaborately  ignored  her  husband.  After  an 
instant's  stupefaction  he  strode  across  the  room, 
took  her  chin  in  his  hand,  and  lifted  her  face. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  he  demanded. 

She  snatched  her  head  away  from  his  hand,  and 
dropped  him  an  extravagant  French  curtsy. 

"  Where  I  pleased,  my  master." 

The  man  was  shaking  with  anger. 

"How  did  you  get  in?" 

She  waved  her  gloved  hand  toward  the  hall. 

"Ring  the  bell  —  call  in  your  servants  —  find  out." 

"To  make  a  bigger  fool  of  myself?" 

"Why  not,  since  you  were  willing  to  belittle  me 
before  them  by  your  silly  orders  this  morning?  You 
told  the  eunuch  not  to  let  me  go  out,  and  when  I 
returned,  I  had  to  use  a  ruse  to  enter  my  own  home, 
where  my  baby  boy  is.  You  are  a  brute  and  a  jealous 
fiend,  and  I  am  the  most  unhappy  of  wives. "  And 
thereupon  she  burst  into  the  most  pathetic  sobbing, 
and  threw  herself  upon  me,  holding  me  fast  to  her. 
232 


"Why,  Beauty,"  he  expostulated  in  tender  tones, 
"you  know  I  have  never  been  unkind  to  you,  and 
this  is  the  first  time  I  have  even  thought  of  punishing 
you." 

She  continued  to  sob  without  abatement.  He 
came  near  us,  and  timidly  tried  to  take  her  in  his 
arms.  To  my  surprise  she  went  to  him  like  a  lamb, 
kissing  him  and  crying,  and  I  slipped  out  of  the  room, 
once  more  convinced  that  men  were  mere  babes  in 
the  hands  of  designing  women. 

That  night  I  waited  in  vain  for  her  to  come  and 
tell  me  where  she  had  been,  and  while  waiting  I  fell 
asleep.  After  breakfast  the  next  morning  she  came 
to  my  room,  beaming,  prettier  than  ever  before. 

"Siege  is  raised,"  she  cried,  sitting  down  cross* 
legged  on  the  rug.  "Blossom  of  the  almond  tree, 
we  can  go  for  a  picnic  to  any  cemetery  we  like,  and 
I  am  to  have  a  pair  of  horses  all  my  own,  and  the 
loveliest  low  victoria  that  France  can  manufacture." 
She  put  her  finger-tips  together,  and  looked  up  at 
me,  enjoying  the  effect  of  her  words,  and  continued : 
"I  am  also  going  to  have  a  bigger  allowance,  and 
when  I  have  a  little  girl,  I  may  give  her  a  French 
name.  In  exchange,  I  shall  not  throw  kissed  roses 
to  any  one,  and  I  am  not  going  to  fib  for  a  long,  long 
time." 

She  swayed  forward  till  her  forehead  touched  the 

233 


floor,  and  giggled  so  delightedly  that  I  had  to  join 
her. 

"The  poor  dear!"  she  went  on,  after  her  laughter 
had  subsided.  "If  I  told  him  the  truth  for  a  week, 
he  would  cease  to  find  me  interesting.  I  should  be 
a  tame  creature  —  not  the  woman  he  is  in  love  with. 
Oh,  dear!  all  men  are  alike." 

"You  don't  know  so  very  many  men, "  I  suggested. 

"Not  actually,  Blossom  mine,  not  actually;  but 
a  woman  retains  the  knowledge  of  her  previous 
existences  far  better  than  a  man.  That  is  what  her 
intuition  is.  I  have  been  a  wife  for  thousands  of 
years.  Think  of  the  husbands  I  have  had!  I  know 
all  about  men.  Why  sometimes  I  can  write  down 
Sendi's  words  before  they  leave  his  lips;  and  as  for 
his  actions,  I  know  them  before  he  even  conceives 
them." 

"But  what  I  want  to  know  is  how  you  got  out  of 
the  house  yesterday,  and  then  how  you  got  in  again. " 

She  looked  at  me  with  amused  pity. 

"Blossom,  you  are  just  about  as  stupid  as  a  man 
-just  about.  I  never  left  the  house;  I  couldn't." 

I  stared.  "But  they  searched  high  and  low  —  " 

"Not  very  low,  my  dear,  not  very  low;  for  if  they 

had,  they  would  have  found  us  down  in  the  cistern, 

in  the  baskets  we  keep  the  things  cool  in.  We  almost 

touched  the  water  —  and  we  were  cool,  I  can  tell 

234 


you. "  And  she  went  into  peals  of  infectious  laughter 
that  carried  me  along  with  her. 

"Did  you  tell  him?"  I  asked  when  our  amuse 
ment  had  subsided. 

"Oh,  what  a  goose  you  are,  dear!  Of  course  I  did 
not.  He  will  have  that  riddle  in  the  depths  of  his 
heart  to  torment  him  —  until  I  give  him  a  fresh  one. " 

I  attempted  to  lecture  her,  but  she  closed  my  lips 
with  a  kiss  and  adjured  me  not  to  be  a  simpleton 
until  nature  turned  me  into  a  man. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  CHIVALRY   OF  ARIF  BEY 

UP  to  now  I  have  only  spoken  of  the  women  of 
Turkey,  because  such  are  the  conditions  there  that 
men  and  women  do  not  mingle  freely. 

By  the  Western  world  Turkish  men  are  held  in 
low  estimation:  it  may  be  with  reason,  and  it  may 
be  merely  out  of  ignorance.  One  of  the  episodes  of 
my  life  deals  with  a  Turkish  man,  the  Arif  Bey  who 
used  to  come  to  our  house  as  my  brother's  friend, 
when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  who  for  a  while  got  mixed 
in  my  head  with  the  Greek  demigods.  I  had  not 
seen  him  for  years.  Once  I  had  asked  my  brother 
about  him.  He  had  told  me  only  that  he  was  now  a 
pasha,  and  then  changed  the  conversation. 

My  brother  and  I  were  invited  to  spend  a  week 
in  Constantinople  with  some  friends,  the  Kallerghis. 
Our  host  was  a  charming,  dashing  man  of  over  forty, 
one  of  the  few  remaining  of  a  formerly  rich  and 
powerful  Greek  family.  He  was  a  Turkish  official, 
and  the  only  support  of  a  bedridden  mother,  to 
whom  he  was  so  devoted  that  on  her  account  he 
remained  a  bachelor. 

He  was  very  fond  of  talking,  perhaps  because  he 
told  a  story  so  well,  or  perhaps  because,  being  of  an 
236 


adventurous  disposition,  he  had  been  in  many  a 
scrape.  One  night  he  told  us  of  his  experiences  when, 
in  disguise,  he  had  managed  to  penetrate  into  the 
Tekhe  of  the  Dervishes  of  Stamboul  and  witness 
one  of  their  secret  ceremonies.  It  was  one  to  which 
only  the  most  orthodox  Mussulmans  were  admitted, 
and  a  Christian  took  his  life  in  his  hand  if  he  tried 
to  be  present.  He  described  the  ceremony  as  some 
thing  weird,  but  not  unpleasant,  as  something  worth 
seeing.  There  are  people  in  the  world  who  add 
splendor  to  whatever  they  describe,  a  splendor  which 
is  in  their  hearts  and  minds  and  not  in  the  seen  thing. 
Such  a  man  was  Damon  Kallerghis. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  his  words,  the  tapping 
of  the  hour  by  the  bektchi,  on  his  nightly  rounds, 
came  to  us  from  sleeping  Constantinople  outside. 

"And  how  often  do  the  ceremonies  occur?"  I 
asked,  breathless  with  the  interest  he  had  aroused. 
"  Twice  a  year.  The  next  one  will  be  in  six  weeks. " 
That  night  I  could  not  sleep  for  the  haunting 
remembrance  of  the  uncanny  wonders  to  which  I 
had  listened.  I  did  not  even  go  to  bed.  Sitting  by 
the  window,  I  looked  at  the  white  minarets,  faintly 
gleaming  against  the  dark-blue  Oriental  sky.  Yonder 
was  Stamboul,  with  its  mysteries  and  its  charm. 
Which  of  all  those  graceful  peaks  reared  itself  above 
the  Mosque  of  the  Dervishes?  My  desire  to  see  that 

237 


of  which  I  had  heard  grew  ever  stronger  as  the 
hours  passed,  until  I  could  stay  quiet  no  longer. 

My  brother's  room  was  next  to  mine.  To  it  I  went, 
and  with  the  unscrupulous  cruelty  of  my  age,  I 
woke  him. 

He  jumped  up,  rubbing  his  eyes.  "What  is  it, 
child?  Are  you  ill?" 

"No,"  I  said,  settling  myself  on  the  foot  of  his 
bed.  "Brother,  I  want  to  go  to  the  dervishes' dance 
next  month. " 

"Upon  my  word!"  he  exclaimed.  "Go  back  to 
bed  at  once,  or  I  shall  think  you  have  gone  crazy. " 

"Brother,  you  have  got  to  say  that  you  are  going 
to  take  me  there. " 

My  brother  was  thoroughly  awake  by  this  time. 
He  looked  at  me  with  a  kind  of  despair. 

"  But  did  n't  you  hear  how  dangerous  it  was  — 
even  for  Damon  Kallerghis?  As  for  your  going,  you 
might  as  well  prance  off  to  prison  at  once. " 

"I  don't  mind  going  to  prison,  if  I  can  see  the 
dervishes  first,"  I  persisted. 

My  brother  was  fourteen  years  older  than  I.  He 
had  been  my  playfellow  and  my  instructor,  and  was 
now  my  guardian.  Unfortunately,  he  was  neither 
stern  with  me  nor  prudent  himself.  I  knew  that  I 
could  make  him  grant  me  this  wish  if  I  only  stuck 
to  it  long  enough;  and  when  I  returned  to  my  room 
238 


an  hour  later,  I  went  to  sleep  delighted  with  the 
thought  of  the  extracted  promise. 

The  next  six  weeks  passed  slowly,  although  we 
were  busy  with  a  number  of  preparations.  We  had, 
of  course,  to  be  provided  with  Turkish  clothes  cor 
rect  in  every  particular;  and  since,  according  to 
Osmanli  custom,  a  lady  never  goes  abroad  alone,  at 
least  two  other  women  on  whose  courage  and  dis 
cretion  we  could  count  had  to  be  enlisted.  It  was  not 
difficult  to  find  men  to  accompany  us.  Any  enter 
prise,  the  aim  of  which  was  to  outwit  the  Turks, 
could  not  but  appeal  to  Greeks.  The  two  young  men 
whom  we  chose  were  both  government  officials,  but 
this  did  not  in  the  least  abate  their  enthusiasm  for 
the  enterprise. 

At  last  the  night  of  nights  arrived.  We  met  at  the 
Kallerghis  house,  dressed  there,  and  stole  down  the 
back  way  to  two  carriages  awaiting  us.  These  took 
us  to  the  Galata  Bridge,  whence  we  proceeded  on  foot. 
A  faithful  manservant,  dressed  in  the  Anatolian 
salvhar,  headed  the  procession,  carrying  a  lantern. 
We  women  came  next,  and  our  escorts  followed  a 
little  way  behind,  since  Turkish  women  never  walk 
in  company  with  men. 

Stamboul  in  the  daytime  is  clamorous  and  over 
crowded.  The  hundred  and  one  cries  of  its  peddlers 
and  shopkeepers  come  at  once  from  all  quarters,  and 

239 


in  half  the  languages  of  the  earth,  while  one  can 
hardly  move  about  for  the  congestion  of  people.  At 
night  it  is  as  silent  and  dark  as  the  tomb.  As  we 
hurried  along  the  narrow,  crooked  streets,  we  heard 
the  occasional  tramp  of  the  night  patrol,  the  sharp 
yelps  of  the  dogs  at  their  scavenger  work,  and  that 
was  all.  I  had  never  before  seen  Stamboul  at  night, 
and  I  doubt  whether  I  shall  ever  wish  to  see  it  again. 
I  began  to  realize  the  enormity  of  our  enterprise, 
and  to  appreciate  that  had  my  brother  been  of  a 
less  adventurous  temperament  or  a  more  careful 
guardian,  we  should  never  have  been  where  we  were 
at  that  hour.  As  we  stumbled  along  over  ill-paved 
alleys,  which  little  deserved  to  be  called  streets, 
the  bravery  with  which  I  had  confronted  the  idea  of 
possible  dangers  oozed  out  of  me.  Nursery  tales  of 
the  ferocity  of  the  Turks  recurred  to  a  mind  which 
the  consciousness  of  doing  wrong  made  susceptible 
to  fear.  We  were  on  our  way  to  steal  into  a  mosque 
the  door  of  which  was  strictly  closed  against  us. 
We  were  dressed  in  Turkish  clothes,  and  Christian 
women  were  forbidden  under  a  heavy  penalty  to 
dress  as  Turks,  except  in  the  company  of  Turkish 
women.  We  were  all  Greeks,  and  the  Turks  had  been 
our  hereditary  enemies  since  1453.  Had  I  had  the 
courage  at  this  juncture  to  demand  that  we  return, 
as  I  had  insisted  on  coming,  I  should  have  been 
240 


spared  one  of  the  most  terrifying  nights  of  my  life; 
but  I  lacked  this,  and  my  shaky  legs  marched  on 
through  the  unnamed  and  unnumbered  streets  to 
our  destination. 

The  man  who  had  been  the  primary  cause  of  our 
risky  enterprise  awaited  us  at  the  arched  gateway 
of  the  Tekhe.  He  signaled  us  to  follow  him,  and  we 
entered  an  ill-lighted  outer  courtyard.  Thence  we 
went  down  a  steep  staircase  to  an  inner  one  that  must 
have  been  considerably  below  the  street  level.  My 
recollections  of  our  movements  for  the  next  few 
minutes  are  hazy.  We  walked  through  one  crooked 
corridor  after  another  till  we  came  to  what  looked 
like  an  impasse.  A  young  dervish  was  standing  so 
flat  against  the  wall  that  I  did  not  notice  him  until 
Damon  Kallerghis  made  a  sign  to  him,  to  which  he 
responded.  He  lifted  the  heavy  leather  portiere,  which 
I  had  taken  to  be  the  solid  wall,  and  permitted  us  to 
pass  under  it,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  beyond  any 
human  protection.  Up  to  this  moment  it  would  still 
have  been  possible  for  us  to  turn  back;  but  when 
that  leather  portiere  closed  behind  us,  we  were  in  the 
dark  Tekhe  itself. 

An  insane  fear  seized  me.  What  if  our  guide  had 
entrapped  us  here  to  our  destruction?  I  did  not  stop 
to  reflect  how  much  persuasion  it  had  required  to 
get  him  to  conduct  us  on  this  harebrained  escapade. 

241 


I  was  simply  afraid,  and  my  fear  robbed  me  of  every 
vestige  of  common  sense.  Fortunately,  beyond 
trembling  till  my  teeth  chattered,  I  attempted  noth 
ing. 

A  few  yards  farther  over  the  stone  floor,  and  we 
were  pushed  into  a  stall,  and  another  leather  portiere 
closed  us  in.  This  was  the  end  of  our  journey.  The 
front  of  the  stall  was  covered  with  lattice-work,  and 
through  its  holes  we  could  look  down  into  a  cavernous 
square  arena,  dark,  save  for  a  big  charcoal  fire 
smouldering  in  the  middle.  Around  the  arena  ran 
an  arcade,  and  under  it  we  presently  made  out  the 
reclining  forms  of  many  dervishes  of  different  orders, 
and  numerous  Mohammedan  pilgrims,  quietly  smok 
ing.  The  stalls  on  our  right  and  left  must  also  have 
been  occupied,  for  we  heard  the  scuffling  of  feet  on 
the  floor,  and  then  silence. 

I  really  cannot  say  how  long  we  sat  on  our  low 
stools,  looking  down  on  the  weird  scene  beneath  us, 
before  the  oppressive  silence  was  broken  by  a  fear 
fully  plaintive  sound  which  seemed  to  come  from 
far  away,  and  which,  for  lack  of  a  better  word,  I  shall 
have  to  call  music.  On  and  on  it  went,  rising  and  fall 
ing,  monotonous,  dull,  and  melancholy.  It  pene 
trated  the  whole  place,  drugging  the  atmosphere, 
till  one  felt  as  if  any  phantasmagoria  of  the  brain 
might  be  real. 
242 


It  had  another  effect,  this  dreadful,  insistent 
sound.  After  a  few  minutes  a  desire  to  shriek,  even 
to  bite,  came  over  me,  and  I  began  rhythmically  to 
tear  myferedje  in  time  to  the  music. 

From  this  condition  I  was  roused  by  a  strident 
yell,  and  looked  through  the  lattice  with  renewed 
attention.  The  arena  was  beginning  to  fill  with 
long-cloaked  dervishes  carrying  lighted  torches.  A 
mat  was  spread  near  the  charcoal  fire,  and  on  this 
the  sheik,  or  abbot,  of  the  brotherhood  took  his  place, 
cross-legged.  The  nerve-racking  music  ceased  while 
he  offered  a  short  prayer. 

When  this  was  over,  other  dervishes  came  into 
the  arena,  received  torches,  and  ranged  themselves 
under  the  archways  like  caryatids.  The  maddening 
music  started  again,  and  the  dervishes,  joining 
hands,  made  the  round  of  the  inclosure  in  a  slow, 
dancing  step,  somewhat  like  the  step  of  a  dancing 
bear,  gradually  increasing  the  violence  of  their 
movements.  Then  each  one  took  off  his  taj,  or  head 
dress,  kissed  it,  and  passed  it  over  to  the  sheik.  The 
music  grew  faster,  but  lower  in  tone,  and  more  in 
furiating.  The  dervishes,  with  heads  bowed  and 
shoulders  bent,  danced  more  wildly  about  the 
smouldering  fire.  The  long  cloaks  were  thrown  aside, 
and  the  men  appeared,  naked,  except  for  the  band 
around  their  waists,  from  which  hung  long  knives. 

243 


They  threw  out  their  arms,  as  if  in  supplication,  and 
bent  back  their  heads  in  terrible  contortions.  Yells 
of  "Fa  Hour  and  "  Ya  Allah!"  mingled  with  the 
music.  Little  by  little  the  men  lost  every  vestige 
of  resemblance  to  human  beings.  They  were  crea 
tures  possessed  by  a  demoniac  madness.  They 
shrieked  and  yelled  inarticulately,  their  voices  blend 
ing  curiously  well  with  the  hellish  music.  When 
their  frenzy  reached  its  climax,  they  drew  their 
knives  from  their  belts  and  began  stabbing  them 
selves.  The  blood  trickled  down  over  their  bodies, 
and  added  to  the  sinister  aspect  of  the  scene.  After 
a  while  some  of  them  threw  themselves  into  the 
fire,  and  with  ferocious  yelps  jumped  out  of  it. 
Others,  as  if  they  were  hungry  wolves,  and  the  fire 
their  prey,  fell  upon  it  and  ate  the  lighted  charcoal. 
The  smell  of  burning  flesh  was  added  to  the  smell 
of  sweat  and  blood,  and  made  the  close  air  almost 
unbearable. 

When  at  last  they  could  whirl  no  more,  yell  no 
more,  stab  themselves,  and  eat  fire  no  more,  one  by 
one  they  fell  to  the  ground.  The  music  became  ever 
faster  and  fainter,  as  if  it  were  agonizing  with  the 
men  who  danced  to  it,  until,  as  the  last  man  collapsed, 
it,  too,  ceased.  The  sheik  then  rose  from  his  mat  and 
went  from  one  prostrate  form  to  another,  breathing 
into  their  faces,  and  administering  to  their  wounds. 

244 


He  who  died  on  such  a  night,  it  was  said,  would  be 
come  a  saint. 

Dazed  and  shaken,  we  left  our  stall  and  stumbled 
along  the  corridors  until  we  reached  the  entrance. 
There  were  other  people,  and  I  was  vaguely  aware  of 
cries  and  sobs,  but  heeded  nothing.  I  wished  to  get 
out  of  the  Tekhe  as  if  my  salvation  depended  on  it. 
At  the  outer  door  I  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  and 
ran  on  after  our  Anatolian  with  his  lantern. 

I  was  by  no  means  myself  yet,  but  a  feeling  of 
relief  came  upon  me  when  the  cold,  damp  air  of  the 
night  struck  my  face.  I  was  trying  to  get  away  from 
the  music,  which  still  clung  to  my  nerves.  For  a  con 
siderable  time  I  walked  on  until  a  hand  touched  my 
shoulder.  Startled,  I  turned,  and  by  the  light  of  the 
moon,  which  had  risen,  looked  into  the  eyes  of  a 
veiled  woman  who  was  a  stranger  to  me.  Other 
veiled  forms  surrounded  me,  none  of  whom  I  knew. 

"Hanoum  effendim,"  said  the  one  who  had 
touched  me,  smiling,  "I  am  afraid  you  have  lost 
your  party,  and  by  mistake  have  come  with  ours. " 

Her  words  were  like  a  cold  but  vivifying  bath. 

"I  must  have  done  so,"  I  replied,  trying  to  avoid 
much  conversation.  "I  will  go  back." 

"Come  with  us  for  the  night,"  she  suggested. 

Thanking  her,  I  took  to  my  heels.  I  had  not  paid 
much  attention  to  the  crooked  streets  traversed  thus 

245 


far,  and  as  I  absolutely  lack  the  sense  of  location, 
I  must  now  have  gone  in  some  other  direction  than 
that  of  the  Tekhe;  for  after  long  running  back  and 
forth,  and  hiding  in  the  by-streets  whenever  I  heard 
any  one  approaching,  I  came  to  the  awful  conclu 
sion  that  I  could  not  find  the  Tekhe,  and,  alone  and 
unprotected,  was  lost  in  the  streets  of  Stamboul.  I 
wondered,  too,  what  the  others  were  doing.  After 
ward  I  learned  that,  when  they  got  to  the  entrance, 
one  of  the  women  of  our  party  fainted,  and,  to 
avoid  danger,  they  had  hidden  in  a  dark  passageway 
while  waiting  for  her  to  come  to  her  senses.  In  their 
excitement  they  did  not  notice  my  disappearance, 
and  when  they  found  it  out,  they  searched  every 
where,  finally  deciding  that  the  others  should  go 
home  while  my  brother  and  one  of  the  men  hid  near 
the  Tekhe,  thinking  that  sooner  or  later  I  should 
turn  up  there.  It  was  only  in  the  early  morning  that 
they  went  away,  hoping  that  by  some  lucky  chance 
I  had  returned  to  the  house. 

Meanwhile  I  was  roaming  far  from  tlie  Tekhe, 
exposed  to  all  kinds  of  dangers.  I  grew  desperate. 
Horrible  stories  of  the  Greek  Revolution  recurred  to 
my  mind:  how  our  women  were  tortured  to  death 
by  the  Turks,  and  how  others,  to  avoid  shame  and 
torture,  had  thrown  themselves  into  the  sea.  If  I 
could  only  reach  the  water!  With  that  idea  in  my 
246 


mind  I  ran  in  the  direction  in  which  I  thought  the 
sea  lay.  Fragments  of  prayer  taught  me  in  child 
hood,  and  long  forgotten  for  lack  of  use,  came  back 
to  me,  and  I  began  to  pray.  I  was  glad  for  the  many 
saints  in  the  Greek  faith  to  whom  I  could  appeal. 
I  tried  to  remember  where  in  the  church  was  the 
particular  niche  of  each  of  the  saints.  It  took  my 
mind  from  my  danger,  and  gave  it  a  definite  object, 
as  I  hurried  on. 

Into  the  intensity  of  my  prayers  there  broke  the 
muffled  sound  of  leather  boots.  The  night  patrol 
was  on  its  rounds.  I  stood  still.  To  all  appearances 
I  was  a  Turkish  woman,  alone  in  the  streets.  The 
patrol  would  arrest  me.  What  if  I  threw  away 
the  feredje  and  the  yasmak  ?  Though  as  a  Turkish 
woman  I  should  be  taken  to  prison,  what  my  fate 
would  be  as  a  Christian  I  did  not  know,  and  the  un 
known  fate  was  the  more  terrifying.  The  Turkish 
garb  was  my  danger,  but  also  my  momentary  pro 
tection. 

I  drew  the  black  silk  about  me.  While  waiting 
for  the  approach  of  the  night  patrol,  my  mind  acted 
quickly.  I  must  belong  to  some  man's  harem,  either 
as  lady  or  slave.  I  was  afraid  that  I  might  not  act 
meekly  enough  for  a  slave;  then  it  must  be  as  some 
body's  wife.  Whose  should  it  be?  The  tall,  stalwart 
figure  of  Arif  Bey  flashed  across  my  mind's  eye.  He 

247 


had  had  two  wives  when  I  knew  him;  he  probably 
had  more  now  —  and  besides,  I  knew  where  his  town 
house  was. 

By  the  time  the  patrol  came  near  me  I  felt  quite 
safe  in  the  thought  of  the  dashing  figure  and  hand 
some  face  of  the  man  I  had  chosen  as  my  husband. 
I  walked  up  to  the  patrol,  though  I  was  swallowing 
hard,  and  told  them  that  I  was  lost,  and  wished  them 
to  take  me  to  the  police-station  and  send  for  Arif 
Pasha,  my  husband.  I  addressed  myself  to  the  man 
who  appeared  to  be  the  officer  of  the  small  band,  and 
spoke  very  low,  in  order  that  he  might  not  detect 
any  hesitancy  in  my  Turkish. 

He  saluted  in  military  fashion,  divided  his  few 
men  into  two  groups,  and  between  them  escorted 
me  to  the  police-station.  There  a  consultation  took 
place  between  him  and  his  superior,  and  the  latter 
asked  me  where  I  had  been,  and  how  I  had  happened 
to  lose  my  party. 

I  smiled  sweetly  at  him.  "I  shall  tell  that  to  my 
husband,  and  he  will  tell  you,  if  he  thinks  best." 

This  was  so  admirable  a  wifely  sentiment  that  it 
left  my  inquisitor  bereft  of  questions. 

"  It  is  a  long  way  to  your  house, "  he  remarked.  "  It 
may  take  some  hours  for  your  husband  to  come  here. " 

"That  does  not  matter,  if  you  will  only  send  for 
him." 

248 


He  took  me  to  a  large  room  and  locked  me  inside. 
I  had  no  means  of  knowing  whether  he  would  send 
for  Arif  Pasha  or  not,  but  I  argued  to  myself  that 
the  name  was  too  big  for  a  policeman  to  trifle  with. 
It  remained  to  be  seen  whether  the  pasha  would 
come  at  the  summons,  or  would  first  go  into  his 
haremlik  to  find  out  whether  one  of  his  wives  were 
really  missing.  And  if  he  had  several  homes,  as  rich 
Turks  often  have,  would  he  be  at  the  address  I  gave, 
or  would  he  be  with  another  wife  at  another  house, 
or  possibly  out  of  town? 

My  thoughts  were  far  from  roseate.  I  sat  on  my 
stool  praying  to  my  Maker  as  I  have  never  done 
before  or  since.  I  thought  that  after  this  experience 
I  should  become  a  very  wise  and  careful  woman. 
Alas! 

The  night  grew  older,  and  the  grayish  light  grad 
ually  pierced  the  darkness,  as  I  disconsolately  won 
dered  what  would  happen  to  me. 

There  were  steps  outside,  the  key  turned,  and 
Arif  Pasha  entered  the  room,  and  shut  the  door 
behind  him. 

My  father  used  to  say:  "Don't  be  humble  with 
the  Turks.  Ask  them  what  you  want,  and  ask  it  as 
your  right. " 

"Please  be  seated,  Arif  Pasha,"  I  said,  "and  I 
will  tell  you  all  about  it. " 

249 


"And,  pray,  who  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  will  tell  you  that  also,"  I  answered  with  as 
confident  a  manner  as  I  was  able  to  assume. 

He  drew  up  a  stool  and  sat  down  opposite  me. 
Then  I  told  him  the  whole  adventure,  adding  that 
I  had  sent  for  him  to  get  me  out  of  the  scrape. 

When  I  had  finished,  he  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  heartily.  "So  you  are  my  wife,  are  you?" 
he  exclaimed. 

I  laughed,  too,  tremendously  relieved  that  he  was 
not  angry  with  me. 

"I  remember  you  well  now,"  he  went  on,  "and 
if  you  are  not  any  better  disciplined  than  you  were 
a  few  years  ago,  you  will  make  a  troublesome  handful 
of  a  wife."  And  again  he  roared.  "I  told  your  pre 
cious  brother  once  that  if  he  did  n't  use  more  discre 
tion  in  bringing  you  up,  you  would  keep  him  pretty 
busy.  And  now  what  do  you  think  I  can  do  for  you?  " 

"  Why,  you  will  just  get  me  out  of  here,  and  drive 
me  to  the  Kallerghis,  where  I  am  staying. " 

Arif  Pasha  looked  at  me  with  a  kind  of  puzzled 
exasperation.  "How  old  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"Sixteen." 

"Well,  can't  you  see  that  if  I  drove  you  there  at 
this  hour  your  reputation  would  be  ruined?" 

"Oh!"  I  exclaimed  blankly.  "Then  what  must  we 
do?"  I  was  quite  willing  to  leave  it  all  to  him. 
250 


A  fresh  access  of  merriment  overcame  the  Turk. 
He  laughed  till  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  I  stood 
by,  inclined  to  join  in  with  him,  yet  not  quite  sure 
whether  it  was  directed  against  me  or  not.  In  truth, 
there  was  a  sardonic  humor  in  the  situation  which 
I  did  not  understand  until  some  hours  later. 

"Did  ever  a  man  find  himself  in  such  a  position!" 
he  gasped,  wiping  his  eyes.  "Here  I  am  routed  out 
of  bed  at  an  unearthly  hour,  and  dragged  across 
Stamboul  to  a  police-station,  to  discover  myself  pos 
sessed  of  a  Greek  wife  I  never  knew  I  had  —  and  to 
get  her  out  of  jail!" 

He  went  to  the  door  and  clapped  his  hands.  To 
the  soldier  who  responded  to  the  signal  he  said  a 
few  words,  and  then  returned  to  me. 

"I  have  sent  for  coffee  and  something  to  eat." 

"But  I  don't  want  anything  to  eat.  I  only  want 
to  get  out  of  here,"  I  said  petulantly. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said  with  severity,  "but  I  am 
not  accustomed  to  speak  twice  to  my  wives.  They 
do  what  I  say  without  objections. " 

"But  I'm  not  your  wife,"  I  retorted,  nettled  at 
his  lofty  tone. 

"No?  I  thought  you  said  you  were."  And  again 
his  laugh  filled  the  room. 

When  the  coffee  and  galetas  were  brought  in,  I 
ate  meekly,  and  they  tasted  good.  The  hot  coffee, 

251 


especially,  warmed  me,  and  made  things  seem  more 
cheerful  than  they  had. 

When  we  had  finished  eating,  he  said  to  me: 
"Now,  mademoiselle,  my  carriage  is  downstairs,  but 
I  have  explained  to  you  why  I  cannot  drive  you 
direct  to  the  Kallerghis. " 

"Suppose  you  take  me  to  your  home,  and  tell 
your  favorite  wife  about  it, "  I  suggested. 

His  dark-blue  eyes  danced.  "  You  think  she  will 
believe  me,  mademoiselle?  " 

"Why  not?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "When  you  are  a  woman, 
you  will  understand  many  things  you  do  not  now, 
and  I  hope  you  will  still  have  cause  to  trust  men 
as  you  do  now.  But,  mademoiselle,  they  are  not  all 
trustworthy,  and  women  are  right  not  to  believe 
what  they  say. " 

He  caressed  his  clean-shaven  chin  and  became  lost 
in  thought.  Presently  he  unfolded  his  plan,  and 
even  in  my  youth  and  impatience  I  began  to  see  that 
the  sole  object  of  all  his  precautions  was  to  get  me 
into  the  house  in  such  a  way  as  to  save  me  from  any 
breath  of  scandal. 

The  sooner  we  left  the  station-house,  the  better 
it  would  be.  He  spoke  a  few  words  to  the  police- 
officers,  and  then  told  me  to  follow  him.  There  was 
a  closed  coupe  awaiting  us,  and  when  we  were  in  it,  he 
252 


pulled  down  both  curtains.  "We  are  going  on  a  long 
drive  until  it  becomes  respectable  daylight.  Then 
we  shall  go  to  your  house,  as  if  I  were  bringing  you 
back  from  a  visit  to  one  of  my  wives. " 

It  was  after  nine  o'clock  when  we  reached  the 
Kallerghis  house. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "arrange  the  yashmak  so  that  it 
will  look  like  a  European  scarf,  and  hold  your  fe- 
redje  as  if  it  were  a  silk  cloak,  and  don't  look  fright 
ened.  I  will  get  out  and  ring  the  bell,  and  stay  here 
talking  and  laughing  with  you  for  a  minute.  If  you 
see  people  whom  you  know,  bow  cordially  to  them, 
and  do  not  act  as  if  there  were  anything  unusual 
in  the  situation. " 

When  the  servant  answered  the  bell,  I  came  out 
of  the  carriage,  and  Arif  Pasha,  bending  over  my 
hand,  said :  — 

"Mademoiselle,  tell  your  brother  that  I  shall  for 
get  ever  having  seen  you  to-night. " 

"Thank  you,  "I  said. 

Of  the  man  who  opened  the  door,  I  asked:  "  Is  my 
brother  or  Kyrios  Kallerghis  in?" 

"No,  mademoiselle.  They  have  been  here  several 
times  this  morning,  but  are  out  now.  They  seem  to 
be  in  some  kind  of  trouble. " 

"As  soon  as  they  come  in,  tell  them  I  should  like 
to  see  them." 

253 


It  was  a  haggard  and  miserable  brother  who  came 
to  my  room  an  hour  or  so  later. 

After  telling  him  all  my  adventure,  I  repeated 
Arif  Pasha's  message. 

My  brother  gave  me  a  long,  thoughtful  look. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  Arif  and  I 
have  been  deadly  enemies  for  the  last  three  years?" 


CHAPTER  XX 

IN  THE  WAKE   OF  COLUMBUS 

THIS  night  of  terrors  proved  my  last  adventure  in 
Turkey.  Soon  afterwards  events  began  to  force  me 
to  feel  that  in  order  to  live  my  own  life  as  seemed 
right  to  me,  I  must  flee  from  all  I  knew  and  loved  to 
an  unknown,  alien  land.  It  is  a  hard  fate:  it  involves 
sacrifices  and  brings  heart-aches.  After  all,  what 
gives  to  life  sweetness  and  charm  is  the  orderliness 
with  which  one  develops.  To  grow  on  the  home  soil, 
and  quietly  to  reach  full  bloom  there,  gives  poise 
to  one's  life.  It  may  be  argued  that  this  orderly 
growth  rarely  produces  great  and  dazzling  results; 
still  it  is  more  worth  while.  People  with  restless 
dispositions,  people  to  whom  constant  transplanting 
seems  necessary,  even  if  they  attain  great  develop 
ment,  are  rather  to  be  pitied  than  to  be  envied.  And 
when  the  transplanting  produces  only  mediocre  re 
sults,  there  is  nothing  to  mitigate  the  pity. 

By  nature  I  was  a  social  revolutionist,  and  I  liked 
neither  the  attitude  of  the  men  toward  the  women, 
nor  of  the  women  toward  life,  among  the  people  of 
my  race.  I  have  learned  better  since,  and  know  now 
that  social  laws  exist  because  society  has  found  them 
to  be  wise,  and  that  little  madcaps  like  me  are  better 

255 


off  if  they  respect  them.  But  at  that  time  I  had  more 
daring  than  wisdom,  and  longed  to  go  where  people 
lived  their  lives  both  with  more  freedom  and  with 
more  intensity.  Moreover,  I  wanted  to  "do  some 
thing" —  like  so  many  feather-brained  girls  all  the 
world  over;  just  what,  I  did  not  know,  for  I  had 
no  especial  talents. 

With  a  fairly  accurate  idea  of  my  own  worth,  I 
knew  that  I  was  intelligent,  but  I  was  fully  aware 
that  I  was  the  possessor  of  no  gifts  which  would 
place  me  among  the  privileged  few  and  outside  the 
ranks  of  ordinary  mortals.  Brought  up  on  books 
and  nourished  on  dreams,  I  had  a  poor  preparation 
with  which  to  fight  the  battle  of  life,  particularly 
in  a  foreign  country,  where  everything  was  different, 
and  difficult  both  to  grasp  and  to  manipulate.  The 
only  factor  in  my  favor  was  my  Greek  blood,  synony 
mous  with  money-making  ability;  for  we  Greeks  have 
always  been  merchants,  even  when  we  wore  chla- 
midas  and  reclined  in  the  agora,  declaiming  odes  to 
the  gods,  talking  philosophy,  or  speculating  on  the 
immortality  of  our  souls. 

Knowing  my  race  as  I  did,  and  aware  that  it  suc 
ceeded  in  making  money  in  climates  and  under 
conditions  where  other  races  failed,  I  was  confident 
that  I  could  earn  my  own  living.  There  is  something 
in  us  which  justifies  the  tale  of  Prometheus.  Even 
256 


before  I  was  fifteen,  I  was  quietly  planning  to  leave 
Turkey,  to  go  and  seek  what  fortunes  awaited  me  in 
new  and  strange  lands,  —  a  course  which  my  imagin 
ation  painted  very  attractively.  America  beckoned 
to  me  more  than  any  other  country,  perhaps  be 
cause  I  thought  there  were  no  classes  there,  and  that 
every  one  met  on  an  equal  footing  and  worked  out 
his  own  salvation. 

We  all  are  the  possessors  of  two  kinds  of  knowl 
edge:  one  absorbed  from  experience,  books,  and 
hearsay,  which  we  call  facts;  the  other  a  knowl 
edge  which  comes  to  us  through  our  own  immortal 
selves.  This  last  it  is  impossible  to  analyze,  since  it 
partakes  of  the  unseen  and  the  untranslatable.  We 
feel  it,  that  is  all.  This  subconscious  knowledge  — 
to  which  many  of  us  attach  far  greater  importance 
than  we  do  to  cold  facts  —  usually  is  remote  as  a 
distant  sound,  though  at  times  it  may  be  so  clear 
as  to  be  almost  palpable.  This  secondary  knowl 
edge  told  me  I  must  go  to  America  —  America  which 
rose  so  luminous,  so  full  of  hope  and  promise  on  the 
never-ending  horizon  of  my  young  life. 

I  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of  how  my  dream  of 
going  there  could  be  realized;  but  I  believe  that  if 
one  keeps  on  dreaming  a  dream  hard  enough,  it  will 
eventually  become  a  reality.  And  so  did  mine.  A 
Greek  I  knew  was  appointed  consul  to  New  York, 

257 


and  was  shortly  to  sail  with  his  family  to  the  United 
States.  I  had  a  secret  conference  with  them,  offering 
to  accompany  them  as  an  unpaid  governess,  and  to 
stay  with  them  as  long  as  they  stayed  in  America. 
They  accepted  my  offer. 

,  This  I  regarded  merely  as  a  means  of  getting  away 
from  home.  After  I  should  leave  them  my  real  career 
would  begin.  That  I  was  prepared  for  no  particular 
vocation,  that  I  did  not  even  know  a  single  word  of 
English,  disconcerted  me  not  at  all.  Accustomed  to 
having  my  own  way,  I  was  convinced  that  the 
supreme  right  of  every  person  was  to  lead  his  life 
as  he  chose.  I  do  not  think  so  any  longer.  On  the 
contrary,  I  believe  that  the  supreme  duty  of  every 
individual  is  to  consider  the  greatest  good  of  the 
greatest  number.  That  I  succeeded  in  my  rash  enter 
prise  is  due  more  to  the  kindness  of  Providence  than 
to  any  personal  worth  of  mine. 

Of  America  actually  I  knew  almost  nothing,  and 
what  I  thought  I  knew  was  all  topsy-turvy.  The 
story  of  Pocahontas  and  Captain  John  Smith  had 
fallen  into  my  hands  when  I  was  twelve  years  old. 
I  wept  over  it,  and  surmised  that  the  great  conti 
nent  beyond  the  seas  was  peopled  by  the  descendants 
of  Indian  princesses  and  adventurers.  My  second 
piece  of  information  was  gathered  from  a  French 
novel,  I  believe,  in  which  a  black  sheep  was  referred 

258 


Ml* 


to  as  having  gone  to  America  "where  all  black  sheep 
gravitate. "  And  my  third  source  of  information  was 
''Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  the  book  which  makes  Eu 
ropean  children  form  a  distorted  idea  of  the  American 
people,  and  sentimentalize  over  a  race  hardly  worth 
it. 

This  made  up  my  encyclopaedia  of  American  facts. 
That  all  those  who  emigrated  thither  succeeded 
easily  and  amassed  untold  wealth  I  ascribed  to  the 
fact  that  being  Europeans  they  were  vastly  superior 
to  the  Americans,  who  at  best  were  only  half-breeds. 
You  who  read  this  may  think  that  I  was  singularly 
ignorant;  yet  I  can  assure  you  that  to-day  I  meet 
many  people  on  my  travels  in  Europe  who  are  not 
only  as  ignorant  as  I  was,  but  who  have  even  lower 
ideas  about  the  Americans. 

We  landed  in  New  York  in  whiter,  and  went 
directly  to  Hotel  Martin,  at  that  time  still  in  its  old 
site  near  Washington  Square. 

What  did  I  think  of  America  at  first?  This,  indeed, 
is  the  most  difficult  question  to  answer.  I  was  so 
puzzled  that  I  remained  without  thoughts.  To  begin 
with,  the  people,  for  half-breeds,  were  extremely 
presentable.  The  redskin  ancestral  side  was  quite 
obliterated.  Then  the  houses,  the  streets,  the  whole 
appearance  of  the  city  was  on  a  par  with  Paris. 
What  appalled  us  all  was  the  dearness  of  things. 

259 


I  remember  the  day  when  we  gave  a  Greek  street- 
vendor  one  cent  for  some  fruit,  and  he  handed  us 
one  little  apple.  "Only  this  for  a  cent?"  we  cried; 
and  so  indignant  were  we  that  we  reclaimed  our  cent 
and  returned  him  his  apple. 

We  managed  to  do  ridiculous  things  daily.  At  our 
first  evening  meal  at  the  hotel,  a  tall  glass  vase  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  table  filled  with  such  strange 
flowers  as  we  had  never  seen  before.  They  were  pale 
greenish  white,  with  streaks  of  yellow.  We  thought 
it  very  kind  of  the  proprietor  to  furnish  them  for 
us,  and  each  of  us  took  one  and  fastened  it  on  our 
dresses. 

The  waiters  glanced  at  us  in  surprise,  but  it  was 
nothing  to  the  sensation  we  created  when  we  rose  to 
go  out  of  the  dining-room.  People  nudged  each  other 
and  stared  at  us.  Of  the  French  maid  who  came  to 
unfasten  my  dress  I  asked:  "Do  we  seem  very  for 
eign?" 

"No,  indeed,"  she  replied;  "I  should  have  taken 
mademoiselle  for  a  French  girl,  except  that  she  wears 
her  hair  loose  on  her  back. " 

"  Then  why  did  the  people  in  the  dining-room  stare 
at  us  so?  " 

She  suppressed  a  giggle.    "Yes,  I  know,  made 
moiselle,  I  have  heard  about  it.    It  is  the  flower 
mademoiselle  is  wearing. " 
260 


"What  is  the  matter  with  it?" 

"  Nothing,  except  that  it  is  not  a  flower  —  it  is  a 
vegetable,  called  celery." 

I  do  not  know  how  many  more  absurd  things  we 
did  during  the  three  weeks  we  stayed  at  the  hotel. 
Then  we  took  an  apartment  near  Riverside  Drive, 
the  rent  of  which  staggered  us;  but  when  it  came  to 
the  servants  we  almost  wept,  —  four  pounds  a  month 
to  slovenly  girls  who  were  only  half-trained,  who 
made  a  noise  when  they  walked,  and  who  slammed 
the  doors  every  other  minute*. 

I  was  anxious  to  start  my  English  studies  at  once, 
for  as  yet  I  could  only  say  "All  right!"  a  phrase 
which  everybody  used,  apropos  of  nothing,  it  seemed 
to  me.  I  went  to  the  Normal  College  to  inquire  about 
the  conditions  for  entering  it.  The  president  re 
ceived  me.  He  was  the  first  American  man  with 
whom  I  talked.  He  had  lovely  white  hair,  and  a 
kind,  fatherly  face.  He  spoke  no  French,  and  sent 
for  a  student  who  did;  and  when  she  translated  to 
him  what  I  wanted,  he  explained  that  I  could  not 
enter  college  until  I  knew  English  and  could  pass 
my  entrance  examinations.  The  young  girl  who 
translated  offered  to  teach  me  English  for  a  sum 
which,  to  me,  coming  from  the  East  and  cheap  labor, 
and  possessor  of  small  financial  resources,  seemed 
preposterous.  Still,  I  liked  her  eyes:  they  were  dark- 

261 


blue,  and  green,  and  gray,  all  at  once,  with  long  and 
pretty  lashes;  so  I  accepted  her  offer.  That  very 
evening  she  gave  me  my  first  lesson,  and  proposed 
that,  instead  of  paying  her,  I  should  improve  her 
French  in  exchange  for  her  English  lessons,  an  offer 
I  was  very  glad  to  accept.  She  was  my  first  Amer 
ican  friend,  and  remains  among  my  very  best. 

We  had  only  been  a  few  months  in  New  York  when 
my  Greek  friends  were  obliged  to  return  to  Turkey. 
I  resolved  to  remain  behind.  I  must  confess  at  once 
that  I  did  so  out  of  pride  alone.  New  York  had 
frightened  me  more  than  the  capture  by  the  brig 
ands,  the  earthquake,  and  an  Armenian  massacre 
in  which  I  once  found  myself,  all  put  together.  Yet 
to  go  back  was  to  admit  that  I  had  failed,  that  the 
world  had  beaten  me,  and  after  only  a  very  few 
months. 

I  had  just  sixty  dollars,  and  my  courage  —  robbed 
a  little  of  its  effervescence.  Since  I  had  only  two 
English  lessons  a  week,  and  no  practice  whatever, 
because  all  the  people  we  met  spoke  French  to  us, 
my  vocabulary  was  very  limited,  yet  I  managed  to 
get  about  pretty  well.  Once  in  a  shop  I  asked  for 
"half-past  three  sho-es";  and  obtained  them  without 
trouble. 

Before  my  friends  left  New  York  for  Constanti 
nople,  they  gave  me  a  certificate  saying  that  I  was 
262 


qualified  to  be  a  governess  —  for  which  I  was  really 
as  qualified  as  to  drive  an  engine.  Since  I  had  had 
no  chance  to  modify  my  opinion  about  the  origin 
of  Americans,  I  still  looked  upon  them  as  inferiors; 
and  considered  myself  quite  good  enough  for  them. 

Taking  a  small  room  in  a  small  hotel,  I  applied 
to  an  agency  for  a  position.  It  did  not  prove  quite 
so  easy  to  obtain  as  I  had  thought  it  would.  In  the 
first  place,  I  was  not  French-born;  secondly,  I  was 
ridiculously  young-looking;  and  then,  of  course,  I 
had  to  admit  that  I  had  been  a  governess  in  a  way 
only. 

How  amusing  it  was  to  be  presented  as  a  governess ! 
Most  of  the  ladies  spoke  such  comical  French,  and 
asked  questions  which  I  thought  even  funnier  than 
their  French.  I  could  have  found  a  place  at  once, 
if  I  had  been  willing  to  accept  twenty-five  dollars 
a  month  as  a  nursery  governess,  and  eat  with  the 
servants. 

Meanwhile  most  of  my  money  was  spent,  and  to 
economize  I  walked  miles  and  miles  rather  than  take 
the  streetcars;  and  then  came  the  time  when  all 
my  money  was  gone,  and  I  was  in  arrears  with  my 
rent,  and  had  no  money  for  food. 

I  do  not  wish  any  one  to  suppose  that  I  was  miser 
able.  On  the  contrary,  I  liked  it:  I  was  at  last  living 
the  life  I  had  so  often  read  about.  I  was  one  of  the 

263 


great  mass  of  toilers  of  the  earth,  whom  in  my  ignor 
ance  I  held  far  superior  to  the  better  classes.  I  had 
romantic  notions  about  being  a  working-girl,  and 
my  imagination  was  a  fairy's  wand  which  trans 
figured  everything.  Besides,  I  was  a  heroine  to  my 
self.  Those  who  have  even  for  one  short  hour  been 
heroes  to  themselves  can  understand  the  exaltation 
in  which  I  lived,  and  can  share  with  me  in  the  glory 
of  those  days. 

At  this  time  I  happened  to  apply  to  the  Greek 
newspaper  for  a  position,  not  because  I  thought  there 
was  any  chance  for  me,  but  because  it  was  so  inter 
esting  to  apply  for  work.  Every  time  I  applied  to  a 
new  person,  it  was  a  new  adventure;  and  I  had  ap 
plied  so  many  times,  and  been  rejected  so  often,  that 
I  did  not  mind  it  any  more.  I  knew  that  if  worst 
came  to  worst  I  could  for  a  time  become  a  servant. 
I  was  well  trained  in  domestic  work  and  could  cook 
pretty  well;  for  when  we  Greek  girls  are  not  at  school, 
a  competent  person  is  engaged  to  come  into  the 
house  and  train  us  systematically  in  all  branches  of 
housekeeping.  The  idea  of  becoming  a  servant,  of 
entering  an  American  home  and  obtaining  a  worm's- 
eye  view  of  my  half-breeds  from  within  their  own 
walls,  appealed  to  me.  What  I  objected  to  was 
being  hired  as  a  governess  and  being  treated  as  a 
servant. 
264 


To  my  surprise,  the  Greek  newspaper,  a  weekly 
then,  took  me  at  once  on  its  staff.  I  was  delirious 
with  joy,  not  so  much  because  I  was  going  to  earn 
money,  as  at  the  idea  of  working  on  a  news 
paper.  It  seemed  so  glorious,  so  at  the  top  of  every 
thing. 

Just  at  this  time  —  at  the  agency,  I  think  —  I 
heard  of  a  French  home,  far  out  on  the  West  Side 
in  the  vicinity  of  Twenty-third  Street,  where  French 
working-girls  stayed  while  seeking  positions.  I  went 
there,  and  made  arrangements  to  stay  a  few  months; 
and  from  there  sought  my  hotel  proprietor.  I  told 
him  that  the  Greek  newspaper  had  engaged  me  at 
a  salary  which  did  not  permit  me  to  live  at  his  hotel, 
and  what  was  more,  that  I  could  not  at  the  moment 
pay  him  what  I  owed  him,  —  three  weeks'  rent,  I 
believe,  —  but  that  I  would  pay  him  as  soon  as  pos 
sible.  He  was  very  nice  about  the  matter,  and  said 
it  would  be  "all  right,"  though  I  doubt  very  much 
if  he  ever  expected  to  see  his  money. 

My  work  on  the  newspaper  was  hard  and  tedious. 
I  am  a  bad  speller,  and  can  write  a  word  in  five 
different  ways  on  one  page  without  discovering  it. 
On  account  of  this  failing  I  was  often  taken  to  task 
by  the  editor-in-chief,  who  was  the  proprietor,  and 
had  some  black  moments  over  it,  until  one  of  the 
typesetters  quietly  suggested  to  me  that  I  pass  him 

265 


over  my  stuff  and  he  would  correct  the  spelling  before 
the  editor  saw  it,  which  I  did  ever  after,  and  was 
very  thankful  to  him. 

My  newspaper  work  was  not  only  of  long,  long 
hours,  but  it  absorbed  all  my  time,  as  well  as  my 
energy  and  strength,  and  shortly  after  undertak 
ing  it  I  had  to  give  up  my  English  studies.  I  was 
too  worn  out  physically  and  mentally  to  continue 
them. 

It  was  not  so  bad  during  the  cold  weather,  but 
suddenly,  without  the  slightest  warning,  the  cold 
gave  place  to  burning  heat.  There  was  no  spring. 
That  lovely  transition  period  in  which  all  is  soft, 
both  in  air  and  in  colors,  did  not  exist  in  that  Ameri 
can  year.  The  summer  burst  fiercely  over  the  city 
and  scorched  it  in  a  few  days.  It  grilled  the  pave 
ments;  it  grilled  the  houses;  it  multiplied  and  magni 
fied  the  noises  of  horse-  and  Elevated-cars,  of  street- 
hawkers  and  yelling  children  —  and  these  noises 
in  turn  seemed  to  accentuate  the  heat.  Every  morn 
ing  I  took  the  Sixth  Avenue  Elevated  train  at 
Twenty-third  Street,  and  all  the  way  to  the  Battery 
there  was  hardly  a  tree  or  a  blade  of  grass  to  meet 
the  tired  eye,  to  soothe  the  over-wrought  nerves, 
nothing  but  ugly  buildings  —  ugly  and  dirty.  And 
as  the  train  whizzed  along,  the  glimpses  I  had  of  the 
people  inside  these  buildings  were  even  more  dis- 
266 


heartening  than  the  ugliness  and  dirtiness  of  the 
buildings  themselves. 

And  this  was  my  America,  the  country  of  the 
promised  land.  It  seemed  to  me  then  as  if  my  golden 
dream  had  turned  into  a  hideous  nightmare  of  fact, 
—  a  nightmare  which  threatened  to  engulf  me  and 
cast  me  into  that  unrecognizable  mass  continually 
forming  by  the  failures  of  life.  That  I  did  not  sink 
down  into  it  was  because,  in  spite  of  the  hideous 
reality,  I  remained  a  dreamer,  and  those  who  live  in 
dreams  are  rarely  quelled  by  reality.  In  that  fearful, 
hot  New  York  summer  I  began  to  dream  another 
dream  which  made  the  heat  more  tolerable.  Daily, 
as  the  Elevated  train  noised  its  way  to  the  Battery, 
I  imagined  myself  having  succeeded,  having  amassed 
wealth,  from  which  I  made  gifts  to  the  thousands  of 
toilers  in  that  scorched  city.  I  planted  trees  for  them 
everywhere,  along  the  streets,  along  the  avenues; 
and  wherever  there  was  a  little  vacant  plot  of  land 
I  converted  it  into  a  tiny  park.  There  I  saw  the 
people  sitting  under  the  shade  of  my  trees,  and  so 
real  did  my  dream  become  that  I  began  actually  to 
live  it,  and  suffered  less  from  the  heat  myself;  for  I 
was  constantly  on  the  lookout  for  new  spots  where  I 
could  plant  more  trees. 

At  luncheon-time  I  used  to  go  out  for  a  little  stroll 
on  the  Battery,  and  there  I  would  see  immigrant 

267 


women,  dressed  partially  in  their  native  costumes, 
and  surrounded  by  numbers  of  their  little  ones, 
jabbering  in  their  own  lingo.  One  day  I  sat  down 
near  a  solitary  woman,  unmistakably  an  Italian 
peasant. 

"Hot  to-day,  isn't  it?"  I  said  in  her  own 
tongue. 

From  the  sea,  slowly  she  raised  her  eyes  to  me.  I 
smiled  at  her,  but  received  no  response. 

"You  look  very  tired,"  I  said,  "and  so  am  I.  I 
suppose  you  are  thinking  of  your  own  country,  of 
fields  and  trees,  are  you  not?" 

"How  did  you  know?"  she  demanded  sullenly. 

"Because  I  do  the  same  myself.  I  am  also  an 
immigrant.  You  look  across  the  sea  with  the  same 
yearning  in  your  eyes  as  is  in  my  heart;  for  we  are 
both  homesick." 

She  was  no  longer  cross,  after  this,  and  because 
another  woman  was  sharing  in  her  misery  that  misery 
became  lighter.  She  began  to  tell  me  of  her  sorrow. 
She  had  buried  her  second  baby  in  two  weeks,  be 
cause  of  the  heat.  Her  lap  was  now  empty.  She 
spat  viciously  on  the  water.  "That  is  what  I  have 
in  my  heart  for  America  —  that!"  —  and  again  she 
spat. 

I  volunteered  my  own  disillusionments  about 
America;  and  there  we  sat  at  the  edge  of  the  Battery, 
268 


two  sad  immigrants,  telling  each  other  of  the  beauties 
we  had  left  behind,  and  of  the  difficulties  we  had  to 
fight  in  the  present.  If  I  had  then  known  a  little 
of  the  history  of  America,  I  might  have  told  her  of 
the  first  immigrants,  of  how  much  they  had  to  suffer 
and  endure,  and  for  what  the  present  Thanksgiving 
Day  stood.  I  might  have  told  her  more  of  their 
hardships,  and  how  they  had  had  to  plant  corn  on  the 
graves  of  their  dear  ones,  so  that  the  Indians  should 
not  find  out  how  many  of  them  had  died  ;  but  I  was 
as  ignorant  as  she,  and  we  only  knew  of  our  own 
homesickness  and  misery. 

The  heat  had  started  early  in  May,  and  it  kept  on 
getting  hotter  and  hotter,  with  only  sudden  and 
savage  thunderstorms,  which  passed  over  the  city 
like  outraged  spirits,  and  deluged  it  for  a  few  hours 
with  rain  that  became  steam  as  soon  as  it  touched 
the  scorched  pavements.  Occasionally  some  fresh 
wind  would  penetrate  into  the  city,  as  if  bent  on 
missionary  work;  but  it  was  soon  conquered  by  the 
demons  of  heat.  It  grew  hotter  and  hotter.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  city  would  perish  in  its  own  heat,  —  and 
then  came  the  month  of  August! 

I  shall  never  forget  that  August.  Even  now, 
wherever  I  am  during  that  month,  my  spirit  goes 
back  to  that  desolate  city  to  share  in  the  sufferings 
of  its  poor  people  who  have  to  work  long  hours  in 

260 


hot  offices,  and  then  at  night  try  to  sleep  in  small, 
still  hotter  rooms,  with  the  fiendish  noise  of  the  city 
outside.  And  it  is  then  again  that  my  dream  comes 
back  to  me,  to  give  trees  all  along  the  streets  and  all 
along  the  avenues,  and  shady  open  spaces  to  breathe 
in. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IN  REAL  AMERICA 

IT  was  in  meeting  again  the  hotel  proprietor,  when 
I  went  back  to  pay  him  my  debt,  that  I  first  realized 
what  a  summer  in  the  land  of  promise  had  done  for 
me.  He  did  not  know  me  at  all.  Thinking  it  quite 
natural  he  should  not  remember  one  among  the  thou 
sands  he  saw  yearly,  I  tried  to  recall  myself  to  his 
memory. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,"  he  cried,  "that  you  are 
the  child  who  was  here  a  few  months  ago !  Have  you 
been  ill?" 

"No." 

"Then  what  have  you  done  to  yourself?" 

I  had  not  done  anything  to  myself,  but  the  work 
and  the  heat  had  robbed  me  of  all  my  color,  of  half 
my  hair,  and  of  pounds  of  weight. 

At  the  French  home  my  fellow-inmates  were 
mostly  of  the  servant  class.  They  were  very  kind  to 
me;  they  made  my  bed,  swept  my  room,  washed  my 
hair,  did  my  little  mending,  and  even  brought  me 
sweets.  They  expressed  the  hope  that  I  should  meet 
some  nice  American  who  would  offer  me  marriage; 
yet  they  confessed  that  American  people  were  singu 
larly  devoid  of  sentiment. 

271 


Several  months  after  I  joined  the  staff  of  the 
newspaper,  an  American  scholar,  who  was  writing 
a  book  on  the  Greek  language,  came  to  the  office  to 
see  if  he  could  find  some  one  to  work  with  him,  and 
the  proprietor  recommended  me.  At  his  house  I  met 
his  wife,  who  at  once  took  an  interest  in  me.  Since 
she  spoke  very  little  French,  and  I  no  more  English, 
our  progress  was  slow;  but  both  of  them  were  very 
kind  to  me.  The  husband  became  my  regular  pupil, 
paying  me  for  one  hour's  Greek  lesson  every  day 
more  than  I  was  receiving  from  the  newspaper  for 
all  my  time.  So  I  decided  to  give  up  my  position 
with  the  latter,  where  really  there  was  no  chance  for 
advancement,  and  devote  myself  to  teaching  and 
studying. 

It  was  necessary  for  me  at  this  time  to  change 
quarters.  I  could  not  keep  on  living  in  a  place  where 
I  had  no  companionship;  so  my  Greek  pupil  put  an 
advertisement  in  the  newspaper  for  me,  saying  that 
I  was  an  educated  young  Greek  girl,  who  would 
exchange  French  or  Greek  lessons  for  a  home. 

From  the  replies  to  my  advertisement  he  chose 
a  school,  and  I  went  to  see  the  principal.  She,  too, 
had  blue  eyes,  which  had  become  the  symbol  of 
kindness  to  me.  She  knew  French,  and  we  were  able 
to  speak  together.  She  wished  me  to  coach  a  girl 
in  Greek,  to  pass  her  entrance  examinations,  and  for 
272 


this  was  willing  not  only  to  give  me  my  room  and 
board,  but  my  laundry,  and  I  at  once  moved  to  the 
school,  and  here  ended  the  first  chapter  of  my 
American  life. 

I  was  now  living  in  an  American  school,  sur 
rounded  by  Americans.  I  was  to  see  them  live  their 
American  lives.  One  may  imagine  how  interested  I 
was.  The  school  had  about  a  hundred  day  scholars, 
ranging  from  four  to  twenty  years  of  age ;  and  twenty 
boarders,  representing  almost  as  many  States,  and 
who  —  even  to  my  untrained  ears  —  spoke  in  almost 
as  many  different  ways. 

As  a  teacher  of  Greek  I  failed  utterly.  My  pupil 
read  a  Greek  I  could  not  follow,  even  with  the  text 
book  in  my  hand.  My  beautiful,  musical  mother 
tongue  was  massacred  in  the  mouth  of  that  girl,  and 
she  understood  me  not  at  all.  A  living,  thrilling 
language,  with  a  literature  to-day  on  a  par  with  the 
best  of  Europe's,  and  spoken  by  over  ten  million 
people,  had  to  be  considered  as  dead,  and  pronounced 
in  a  barbaric  and  ridiculous  manner.  The  girl  was 
very  angry  at  me  when  I  told  her  she  did  not  pro 
nounce  it  correctly.  She  informed  me  that  the 
ancient  Greeks  pronounced  Greek  as  she  did,  and 
that  I,  the  lineal  descendant  of  this  people  whose 
language  had  been  handed  down  without  a  break 

273 


from  father  to  son,  and  who  used  the  very  words  of 
Plato  every  day,  did  not  know  how  to  pronounce  it. 
With  what  delight  I  could  have  boxed  her  ears,  only 
I  had  to  remember  that  I  was  no  longer  I,  but  a 
teacher,  exchanging  lessons  for  my  living. 

After  several  lessons  together  she  went  to  the 
principal  and  told  her  that  I  was  quite  unfitted  to 
teach  her,  and  that  she  was  only  wasting  her  time. 

The  principal  and  I  had  a  conference.  "I  can't 
teach  her,"  I  admitted,  "unless  I  learn  to  pronounce 
my  own  language  in  the  execrable  way  she  does. " 

So  far,  then,  as  the  school  was  concerned,  I  had 
failed.  I  was  a  Greek  —  but  could  not  teach  Greek! 
The  thought  of  leaving  the  school  hurt  me,  because 
I  had  become  very  fond  of  the  principal,  who  even 
used  to  come  to  my  room  sometimes  and  kiss  me 
good-night. 

She  offered  me  an  alternative.  "Wouldn't  you 
like  to  teach  the  little  girls  French,  talk  French  with 
the  boarders,  take  them  to  church  and  out  for  their 
walks?" 

I  was  delighted  to  accept  this  proposal.  Not  being 
permitted  to  speak  any  English  with  the  pupils 
materially  impeded  my  own  progress;  but  there  was 
a  girl  in  the  school  who  lived  there  without  being  a 
pupil,  and  who,  although  she  spoke  French  fluently, 
often  talked  English  with  me,  to  give  me  practice. 
274 


We  became  very  good  friends;  she  said  I  was  to  be 
her  daughter,  and  she  would  be  my  mother.  To  her 
I  owe  a  great  deal  of  the  pleasure  I  had  during  my 
first  few  years  in  America. 

The  principal  of  the  school  took  the  greatest  pains 
with  my  English.  It  is  true  she  did  not  permit  me 
to  speak  it  with  the  girls,  but  she  herself  spoke  it  con 
stantly  with  me.  I  could  have  had  no  better  person 
to  pattern  after,  for  she  had  a  lovely  accent,  the  best 
to  be  found  among  Anglo-Saxons  anywhere.  She 
chose  the  books  I  was  to  read,  and  told  me  the  phrases 
to  use,  as  if  I  were  her  most  high-priced  pupil. 

My  general  impression  of  America  now  was  kind 
ness.  It  was  given  to  me  with  the  lavishness  which 
is  one  of  the  chief  characteristics  of  the  Americans. 
Yet  because  they  were  so  different  from  the  people 
I  was  accustomed  to,  I  could  not  understand  them  at 
all  and,  misunderstanding  them,  I  could  not  exactly 
love  them.  In  spite  of  their  kindness  they  had  a 
certain  crudity  of  manner  which  constantly  hurt  me. 
Besides,  they  seemed  to  me  to  live  their  lives  in 
blazing  lights.  I  missed  the  twilights  and  starlights, 
the  poetry  and  charm  of  our  life  at  home — just  as  I 
missed  the  spring  in  their  calandar. 

It  will  perhaps  surprise  Americans  to  hear  that, 
in  spite  of  the  excellent  table  at  the  school,  I  almost 
starved  before  I  could  learn  to  eat  American  food. 

275 


It  seemed  to  me  painfully  tasteless;  the  beef  and 
mutton  were  so  tough,  compared  to  the  meat  in 
Turkey,  and  all  the  vegetables  were  cooked  in  water 
—  while  as  for  the  potatoes  I  had  never  seen  such 
quantities  in  my  life.  We  had  them  for  breakfast, 
for  luncheon,  and  for  dinner,  in  some  form  or  other. 
Just  before  we  sat  down  to  table  the  principal  said 
grace,  in  which  were  the  words,  "  Bless  that  of  which 
we  are  about  to  partake."  To  my  untrained  ear 
"partake"  and  "potatoes"  sounded  exactly  alike, 
and  I  wrote  home  that  the  Americans  not  only  ate 
potatoes  morning,  noon,  and  night,  but  that  they 
even  prayed  to  the  Lord  to  keep  them  supplied  with 
potatoes,  instead  of  daily  bread. 

My  Greek  pupil  and  his  wife,  and  also  my  first 
American  friend  of  the  Normal  College,  found  me 
pupils,  and  I  now  earned  considerable  money.  My 
outside  pupils,  mostly  married  women,  were  very 
nice  to  me;  but  I  had  the  impression  that  they  did 
not  quite  know  how  to  take  me.  I  had  a  terribly 
direct  way  of  speaking,  and  I  was  still  under  the  im 
pression  that  as  a  nation  they  were  my  inferiors,  and 
my  attitude  must  have  displayed  something  of  that 
feeling. 

I  began  to  be  asked  out  to  luncheons  and  dinners, 
-  partly  as  a  freak,  I  am  afraid,  —  and  at  one  of 
these  dinners  I  became  the  victim  of  American 
276 


humor.  Happening  to  mention  that  I  was  surprised 
at  not  seeing  any  pure  Americans  in  New  York,  I 
was  asked  what  I  meant.  I  explained  that  I  meant 
full-blooded  Indians.  Thereupon  my  host  very 
soberly  told  me  that  I  could  see  them  any  day  at 
five  o'clock,  on  Broadway,  at  the  corner  where  now 
stands  the  beautiful  Flatiron  Building.  He  cautioned 
me  to  be  there  at  five  exactly. 

The  very  first  day  I  was  free  I  went  to  the  desig 
nated  corner.  I  arrived  at  half-past  four,  and  waited 
there  till  almost  six,  without  seeing  one  Indian. 
Fearing  that  I  had  made  a  mistake  in  the  corner, 
I  went  into  a  shop,  and  in  my  broken  English,  made 
inquiries.  Two  or  three  clerks  gathered  together  and 
discussed  the  problem,  and  then  one  of  them,  with 
a  latent  laugh  in  his  eyes,  said  to  me:  "I  am  afraid 
some  one  has  played  a  joke  on  you.  There  are  no 
Indians  to  be  seen  anywhere  in  New  York,  except 
in  shows. " 

That  evening  at  school  I  told  the  whole  story  at 
table,  feeling  highly  indignant,  and  believing  that 
my  hearers  would  share  my  indignation.  To  my 
amazement  they  all  burst  into  laughter,  and  de 
clared  it  to  be  the  best  joke  they  had  heard  in  a  long 
time.  Some  of  the  girls  said  they  should  write  it 
home,  because  it  was  so  terribly  funny. 

Their  attitude  was  a  revelation  to  me.  My  host 

277 


had  deceived  me,  and  had  wasted  two  hours  of  my 
time  and  my  strength,  by  giving  me  a  piece  of  in 
formation  that  he  knew  to  be  false;  yet  every  one 
thought  it  delightfully  humorous.  The  only  excuse 
I  could  find  for  this  conduct  was  that  they  were  a 
nation  of  half-breeds,  and  did  not  know  any  better. 
Indeed,  as  time  went  on,  American  humor  was  to  me 
the  most  disagreeable  part  of  Americans.  It  lacked 
finesse:  it  was  not  funny  to  me  —  only  undeveloped 
and  childish.  Daily  I  was  told  that  I  had  no  sense  of 
humor,  and  that,  like  an  Englishman,  I  needed  a 
surgical  operation  to  appreciate  what  was  so  highly 
appreciable. 

Finally  I  got  very  tired  of  being  told  that  I  had  no 
humor  and  could  not  understand  an  American  joke; 
so  I  determined  to  prove  to  them  that  I  not  only 
understood  their  silly  jokes,  but  could  play  them 
myself,  if  I  chose.  Now  to  me  the  essence  of  an 
American  joke  was  a  lie,  told  with  a  sober  face,  and 
in  an  earnest  voice.  I  played  one  on  a  girl  boarder. 
To  my  surprise,  the  girl,  instead  of  laughing,  began 
to  cry  and  sob,  and  almost  went  into  hysterics.  It 
made  a  great  rumpus  in  the  school,  and  the  principal 
sent  for  me. 

"My  dear,  is  what  you  said  true?"  she  asked,  with 
the  greatest  concern. 

"No,  not  a  word  of  it,"  I  replied. 
278 


"Then  why  did  you  say  it  to  the  poor  girl?" 

"To  deceive  her,  and  play  an  American  joke  on 
her." 

The  principal  stared  at  me  an  instant,  and  then 
burst  into  immoderate  laughter.  She  called  the 
victim  and  the  other  older  girls  to  her  and  explained 
my  joke,  and  they  all  went  into  peals  of  laughter. 
In  spite  of  its  inauspicious  beginning,  my  American 
joke  was  a  huge  success ;  and  I  could  not  understand 
why  both  the  principal  and  my  "mother"  united 
—  after  their  amusement  had  subsided  —  in  caution 
ing  me  to  make  no  more  American  jokes. 

For  one  year  I  stayed  at  the  school;  then,  having 
saved  some  money  from  my  private  lessons,  and 
having  enough  pupils  assured  me  for  the  coming 
year,  I  decided  to  leave  the  school  and  go  into  some 
private  family,  for  the  sake  of  my  English,  and  also 
in  order  to  see  American  home  life.  I  still  felt  very 
ignorant  about  the  American  people:  in  their  own 
way  they  were  so  complex,  and  they  could  not  be 
judged  by  European  standards. 

Almost  with  stupefaction  do  I  read  the  interviews 
reported  by  the  newspapers  with  distinguished  and 
undistinguished  foreigners,  who,  after  a  few  days' 
sojourn  in  the  United  States,  and  a  bird's-eye  view 
of  the  country,  give  out  their  comprehensive  and 
eulogistic  opinions.  They  fill  me  with  amazement, 

279 


and  I  wonder  whether  these  other  foreigners  are  so 
much  cleverer  than  I,  or  whether  they  are  playing 
an  American  joke  on  the  American  people. 

The  family  with  whom  I  went  to  live  turned  out 
to  be  a  Danish  husband  with  a  German  wife.  Their 
children,  however,  were  born  and  brought  up  in  this 
country,  so  that  I  did  mingle  with  Americans  of  the 
first  generation.  That  year  away  from  school  en 
abled  me  to  poke  around  a  lot,  in  all  sorts  of  corners 
and  by-corners  of  New  York.  I  took  my  luncheon 
daily  in  a  different  place,  and  spoke  to  all  sorts  of 
people,  and  heard  what  they  had  to  say.  The  papers 
I  read  faithfully,  and  every  unengaged  evening  I 
would  attend  some  public  meeting,  from  a  spiritual 
istic  seance  to  any  sort  of  a  lecture.  I  also  spent 
one  entire  night  in  the  streets  of  New  York.  All  the 
afternoon  I  slept.  At  seven  o'clock  I  dressed  and 
went  to  dinner  alone  in  one  of  the  so-called  best  res 
taurants  of  Broadway,  and  then  to  the  play.  The 
time  between  half-past  eleven  and  five  in  the  morn 
ing  I  spent  in  walking  on  Broadway  and  on  Fifth, 
Sixth,  and  Seventh  avenues.  I  took  the  Elevated 
train  to  the  Battery,  then  up  to  Harlem,  and  down 
again  by  another  line.  New  York  at  night  is  very 
different  from  New  York  in  the  daytime.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  even  the  types  which  inhabited  it  were 
different,  and  I  saw  a  great  deal  which  was  not  pleas- 
280 


ant  to  see;  but  no  one  bothered  me,  either  by  word 
or  look. 

Before  this  year  I  used  to  think  that  to  be  ab 
solutely  free,  to  go  and  come  as  I  pleased,  would  be 
the  acme  of  happiness;  to  have  no  one  to  question 
my  actions,  to  be  responsible  only  to  myself,  would 
be  the  coryphe  of  freedom.  Yet  this  year,  when  I  was 
free  to  go  and  come  as  I  pleased,  and  had  no  one  to 
whom  I  had  to  give  any  account  of  my  actions,  I 
found  to  be  the  most  desolate  of  my  life,  and  my 
freedom  weighed  on  me  far  more  than  ever  restraint 
had  at  home.  I  came  to  realize  that  though  an  in 
dividual  I  was  part  of  a  whole,  and  must  remain  a 
part  of  that  whole  in  order  to  enjoy  life. 

That  year  humanized  me,  so  to  speak,  and  made 
me  understand  the  reason  for  much  that  I  used  tc 
laugh  at  before  —  such,  for  example,  as  the  spinster's 
devotion  to  her  rector,  to  settlement  work,  or  even 
to  a  parrot,  a  cat,  or  a  dog.  Whenever  now  I  see  a 
woman  in  a  carriage  with  a  dog  on  her  lap,  I  may 
join  with  those  who  laugh  at  her;  but  at  the  same 
time  I  wonder  if  it  may  not  be  poverty  and  loneliness 
of  life  which  make  that  woman,  rich  in  money,  lavish 
the  treasures  of  her  heart  on  a  dumb  creature. 

At  the  end  of  the  year  I  returned  to  the  school, 
and  willingly  placed  myself  again  in  harness.  During 
this  year  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  John  Fiske's 

281 


books,  and  discovered  the  error  of  my  preconceived 
notions  about  the  American  people  and  their  origin. 
He  taught  me  who  the  early  settlers  really  were, 
whence  and  why  they  had  come.  I  read  of  their 
privations  and  struggles,  and  of  their  ultimate  suc 
cess.  For  the  first  time  I  looked  upon  this  continent 
as  peopled  by  the  white  race,  and  the  shame  I  felt 
for  my  past  ignorance  was  only  mitigated  by  my 
desire  to  atone  for  it.  I  mapped  out  a  thorough  course 
of  reading,  and  all  the  spare  time  of  that  year  and 
the  next  was  devoted  to  systematic  study  of  American 
history,  literature,  and  poetry. 

And  as  I  read  American  history  it  came  over  me 
how  different  the  beginning  of  this  race  was  from 
the  beginnings  of  all  the  other  civilized  nations  of 
the  world.  Whereas  the  others  all  started  by  a  strong 
barbaric  race  descending  upon  a  weaker  people  and 
seizing  their  cattle  and  their  lands  by  brute  force, 
America  alone  started  with  the  great  middle  classes 
of  all  civilized  races,  who  came  to  the  New  World, 
not  with  brute  force  as  their  weapon,  but  with  the 
desire  to  carry  out  in  a  wild  and  virgin  country 
the  spiritual  and  social  development  they  craved. 
What  a  marvelous,  unprecedented  beginning!  What 
a  heritage  for  their  sons!  I  am  afraid  many  of  them 
do  not  appreciate  the  greatness  of  that  beginning; 
otherwise  why  should  they  try  to  go  beyond  those 
282 


early  settlers  and  seek  to  establish  their  descent 
from  William  the  Conqueror,  or  some  little  sprig  of 
nobility  —  and  make  themselves  ridiculous,  where 
they  ought  to  be  sublime? 

By  temperament  I  am  afraid  I  am  something  of 
an  extremist.  My  barely  tolerant  attitude  toward 
my  new  country  changed  into  a  wholly  reverential 
one.  I  desired  to  become  an  American  myself,  consid 
ering  it  a  great  honor  —  as  in  the  olden  times  people 
came  from  all  over  the  world  to  Greece,  to  become 
that  country's  citizens.  I  started  my  Americanism 
by  adopting  its  brusqueness  —  it  is  an  unfortunate 
fact  that  one  is  as  likely  to  imitate  the  faults  of  those 
one  admires  as  the  virtues.  But  brusqueness  which 
is  so  characteristic  of  America  is  mitigated  by  its 
young  blood  and  by  its  buoyancy,  and  we  of  the  old 
bloods  can  very  little  afford  that  trait.  It  must  have 
made  a  poor  combination  in  me,  and  many  people 
must  have  found  it  hard  to  tolerate.  The  principal 
of  the  school  told  me,  during  my  third  year  with 
her,  that  I  had  so  completely  changed  in  manners 
as  to  be  hardly  recognizable.  When  I  first  came  to 
live  with  her,  she  said,  I  had  had  exquisite  and  charm 
ing  manners;  now  I  had  become  as  brusque  as  any 
raw  Western  girl.  She  little  understood  that  she  was 
attacking  my  new  garb  of  Americanism. 

The  school  year  began  in  October  and  ended  in 

283 


May,  leaving  me  four  months  to  my  own  devices. 
Two  vacations  I  spent  in  a  fashionable  summer 
resort,  not  far  from  New  York,  where  I  not  only  had 
pupils  enough  to  pay  my  expenses,  but  ample  time 
to  read  English  and  American  books,  and  also  op 
portunity  to  study  the  attitude  of  rich  Americans 
toward  a  girl  earning  her  own  living  —  an  attitude 
not  very  different  from  ours  in  the  Old  World.  One 
summer  I  spent  in  a  working-girls'  vacation  home, 
where  all  the  girls  were  shopgirls,  and  where  I  met 
the  proletariat  of  the  New  World  on  an  equal  footing. 
And  once  I  spent  the  entire  four  months  visiting  in 
the  mountains  of  North  Carolina,  where  I  learned 
how  much  more  American  money  is  needed  for  schools 
there  than  in  Constantinople,  where  it  goes  —  not 
to  civilize  the  Turks,  but  to  educate  at  the  least 
possible  expense  to  themselves,  the  children  of  well- 
to-do  Bulgarians,  Greeks,  and  Armenians  —  espe 
cially  the  first.  And  the  recent  actions  of  the  Bul 
garians  have  proved  eloquently  how  little  American 
education  helps  them ;  for  American  civilization  must 
be  sought  —  it  cannot  be  imposed  from  without. 

My  third  year  at  school,  the  head  French  teacher 
left  it,  and  the  principal  offered  me  her  place;  and 
so,  four  years  after  I  landed  in  the  New  World,  I  was 
at  the  head  of  the  French  department  of  one  of  the 
best  private  schools  in  New  York  City.  I  had  many 
284 


good  friends,  was  making  considerable  money  out 
side  the  school,  and  was  studying  at  the  University 
of  New  York.  To  all  appearances  I  had  succeeded; 
yet  truth  compels  me  to  confess  that  so  far  as  my 
inner  self  was  concerned,  I  was  a  total  failure. 

I  had  thought  that  if  I  were  to  join  the  great  army 
of  the  world's  workers,  and  lead  my  life  as  seemed 
to  me  worthy;  if  I  were  to  cut  loose  from  the  con 
ventions  and  traditions  which  hampered  my  de 
velopment  in  the  Old  World,  happiness  would  come 
to  me.  Far  from  it!  I  realized  then  that  I  was  only 
one  of  the  victims  of  that  terrible  disease,  Restless 
ness,  which  has  taken  hold  of  us  women  the  world 
over.  We  are  dissatisfied  with  the  lines  of  develop 
ment  and  action  imposed  by  our  sex,  and  the  causes 
of  our  dissatisfaction  are  so  many  that  I  shall  not 
even  try  to  enumerate  them.  The  terrible  fact  re 
mains  that  in  our  discontent  we  rush  from  this  to 
that  remedy,  hoping  vainly  that  each  new  one  will 
lead  to  peace.  We  have  even  come  to  believe  that 
political  equality  is  the  remedy  for  our  disease. 
Very  soon,  let  us  hope,  we  shall  possess  that  nostrum, 
too.  When  we  find  ourselves  politically  equal  with 
men,  and  on  a  par  with  them  in  the  arena  of  econo 
mics,  we  may  discover  that  these  extraneous  changes 
are  not  what  we  need.  We  may  then,  by  looking 
deep  down  into  our  own  hearts,  see  whether,  as 

285 


women,  we  have  really  done  the  best  we  could  by 
ourselves.  We  may  then  find  out  the  real  cause  for 
our  discontent,  and  deliberately  and  with  our  own 
hands  draw  the  line  of  demarcation  again  between 
men  and  women,  —  and  devote  ourselves  to  de 
veloping  that  greater  efficiency  in  ourselves  along 
our  own  lines,  which  is  the  only  remedy  for  our  pres 
ent  restlessness. 

I  believe  that  only  then  shall  we  find  contentment 
and  a  better  equality  than  the  one  for  which  to-day 
some  of  us  are  even  committing  lawlessness. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

BACK  TO   TURKEY 

YET  after  I  had  come  to  believe  that  these  con 
clusions  of  mine  were  the  right  ones,  —  and  at  the 
present  moment  I  still  believe  them  to  be  so,  —  I 
did  not  rise,  pack  my  trunk,  and  return  to  my  home. 
On  the  contrary,  disillusioned  though  I  was,  I  meant 
to  stay  in  America.  My  little  self  felt  pledged  to 
the  onward  fight,  into  which  evolution  has  plunged 
us.  My  generation  belongs  to  that  advance  guard 
which  will  live  to  see  the  fight  ended  here  in  America; 
and  I  must  be  present,  after  the  great  victory  is  won, 
to  see  how  we  shall  face  the  reconstruction  period. 
This  was  the  reason  why,  when  my  mother,  about 
to  undergo  a  serious  operation,  sent  for  me  to  be 
with  her,  I  bought  my  return  ticket  before  leaving 
America,  and  kept  it  always  with  me  —  ready  for 
use  at  a  moment's  notice. 

The  love  of  our  native  land  forms  an  indelible 
part  of  our  souls.  A  mad  joy  possessed  me  all  the 
way  from  New  York  to  Genoa;  a  delirium  from 
Genoa  to  the  Dardanelles;  and  from  the  straits  to 
the  harbor  I  was  speechless  with  emotion.  How 
wonderful  my  empress  city  looked,  when  the  mist 
gradually  lifted  and  disclosed  her  to  my  homesick 

287 


eyes.  Up  to  that  moment  I  had  thought  never  to  see 
her  enchanting  face  again;  yet  there  I  was,  standing 
on  the  promenade  deck  of  a  commonplace  steamer, 
while  she  was  giving  me  —  me,  her  runaway  child 
—  all  her  smiles  and  all  her  glory. 

We  must  be  very  strong,  that  we  do  not  sometimes 
die  of  joy. 

When  the  little  tender  docked  at  the  Quai  of 
Galata,  how  I  should  have  loved  to  have  escaped 
the  customs  bother,  the  many  and  one  greetings,  and 
the  hundred  and  several  more  stupid  words  one  has 
to  say  on  disembarking.  Yet,  having  acquired  a 
little  wisdom,  I  was  patient  with  the  custom-house 
men,  and  polite  to  the  people  who  had  been  sent  to 
meet  me.  Obediently  even  I  entered  the  carriage 
which  was  to  take  me  up,  up,  on  the  seven  hills 
where  we  Christians  live. 

Not  till  several  days  afterwards  was  I  free  to 
start  on  my  pilgrimage;  and  as  I  walked  up  and 
down  the  main  streets,  and  in  and  out  of  the  narrow, 
crooked,  dirty  lanes,  which  lead  one  enticingly  on 
ward,  —  often  to  nowhere,  —  I  was  aware  that  my 
pilgrimage  had  a  double  aim.  First,  I  wanted  to 
recognize  my  old  haunts;  and  second,  to  find  that 
part  of  myself  which  had  once  lived  within  those 
quarters.  Alas!  if  the  streets  were  the  same,  I  was 
not.  Where  was  the  girl,  full  of  enthusiasm  and 
288 


dreams,  who  had  trod  these  same  streets?  Some 
thing  within  me  had  changed.  Was  it  my  faith  in 
mankind,  or  my  faith  in  life  itself  ? 

As  I  walked  on,  unconsciously  I  was  picturing 
these  same  streets,  clean,  full  of  life  and  bustle,  were 
Turkey  to  belong  to  America.  I  could  see  the  trolleys 
they  would  have  here,  the  terraces  they  would  build 
there,  the  magnificent  buildings  they  would  erect, 
and  all  the  civilized  things  they  would  bring  to  my 
mother  country.  My  eyes,  Americanized  by  the 
progress  of  the  New  World,  kept  seeing  things  that 
ought  to  be  done,  and  were  left  undone,  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  they  had  been  left  undone  for  hun 
dreds  of  years.  The  saddest  of  all  sad  things  is  when 
one  begins  to  see  the  faults  and  failings  of  one's  own 
beloved,  be  it  a  person  or  a  country.  I  hated  myself 
for  finding  fault  with  Turkey  because  she  was  clad 
in  a  poor,  unkempt  garb. 

Before  the  Galata  Tower,  just  where  the  streets 
form  a  cross,  I  turned  to  the  left,  and  walked  to  the 
next  street.  At  its  entrance  the  leader  of  a  band  of 
dogs  rose  from  his  slumbers  and  barked  at  me  angrily. 
I  started,  and  then  stood  still.  This  was  a  street 
where  once  I  had  lived,  and  the  canine  leader  barking 
at  me  was  the  same  as  six  years  ago,  only  older,  more 
unkempt,  and  filthier.  It  hurt  me  to  have  him  bark 
at  me.  It  meant  that  he  did  not  know  me,  —  or  did 

289 


he  with  his  doggish  intuition  feel  that  I  was  disloyal 
in  my  heart  to  the  old  regime? 

"Why,  Giaour!"  I  cried,  "don't  you  know  me? 
We  used  to  be  friends,  you  and  I." 

He  stood  rigidly  on  his  old  legs,  his  band  alert  to 
follow  his  lead.  These  dogs,  which  were  anathema 
to  the  stranger,  had  a  double  duty  to  perform  in 
their  unhappy  city.  They  were  not  only  scavengers, 
but  the  defenders  of  her  defenseless  quarters.  The 
stranger  only  saw  their  scarred  bodies  and  ugly  ap 
pearance;  but  we  who  were  born  in  Constantinople 
knew  how  they  formed  their  bands,  and  how  they 
protected  us.  Each  quarter  had  some  twenty  dogs, 
and  they  guarded  it  both  against  other  dogs,  and 
against  strangers.  The  young  ones,  as  they  grew  up, 
had  to  win  their  spurs,  and  their  position  was  de 
termined  by  their  bravery  and  skill,  both  in  fighting 
and  in  commanding.  I  had  seen  Giaour  win  his 
leadership,  a  month  or  so  before  I  left  Constantinople. 
He  had  been  nicknamed  Giaour  by  a  Turkish 
kapoudji,  because  he  had  a  white  cross  plainly  marked 
on  his  face. 

To  my  entreaties  he  only  stood  growling.  "  Come, 
Giaour,"  I  begged,  "I  have  changed,  I  know,  but 
I  am  still  enough  myself  for  you  not  to  bark  at  me. " 

He  listened,  mistrustfully  watching  every  move 
ment  I  made,  and  because  of  this  I  perpetrated  a 
290 


shameful  deed.  I  retreated  to  Galderim  Gedjesi,  and 
bought  a  loaf  at  the  bakeshop,  and  with  the  bribe 
in  my  hand,  returned.  The  band  was  now  lying  down, 
but  Giaour  was  still  standing,  his  pantalettes  shak 
ing  in  a  ruffled  and  disturbed  fashion.  In  his  heart, 
perhaps,  he  was  not  pleased  with  himself  for  having 
barked  at  me. 

I  approached  him,  the  bread  in  my  hand.  After 
all,  is  not  Turkey  the  land  of  bribes? 

"Come,  Giaour!"  I  went  and  sat  down  on  a  door 
step.  Slowly  and  with  dignity  he  followed.  "  Here 
is  clean  bread  from  the  bakery  for  you,  and  please 
try  to  remember  me!  It  is  more  than  I  can  bear  to 
have  you  bark  at  me,  Giaour. " 

He  sniffed  at  the  piece  of  bread  I  offered  him;  then 
ate  it,  and  then  another  piece,  and  another.  When 
he  had  finished  the  entire  loaf,  he  placed  both  his 
paws  on  my  lap  and  studied  my  face  intently. 

"  Giaour,  you  know  me  now,  don't  you?  "  I  begged. 
"I  used  to  live  here  six  years  ago,  though  it  seems  like 
ages." 

From  across  the  way  an  Englishman  came  out  of 
a  house  and  approached  me,  where  I  sat  with  Giaour's 
paws  in  my  lap.  "Beg  pardon,"  he  said  shyly,  lift 
ing  his  hat.  "  You  are  a  stranger  here,  and  those 
fellows  are  dangerous.  Besides,  they  are  unhealthy. " 

This  was  the  last  straw:  he  took  me  for  a  foreigner. 

291 


"Thank  you,"  I  replied,  "but  I  am  not  afraid. 
The  fact  is,  we  are  of  the  same  kennel,  Giaour  and  I. " 

"Kennel  — h'm!" 

"Oh,  I  know  Giaour  has  never  seen  a  kennel,  as 
you  understand  it  in  England;  but  he  has  a  fine 
doggish  soul,  just  the  same." 

"H'm!"  the  Englishman  sniffed  again;  "perhaps 
he  has."  And  lifting  his  hat,  he  went  away. 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that,  in  England,  unless  an 
Englishman  knows  you,  he  would  rather  perish  than 
speak  to  you  first;  on  the  Continent  he  would  rather 
be  rude  to  you  than  decent;  but  in  Turkey  his  nature 
seems  to  change,  and  he  is  really  a  nice  human  being. 
As  I  watched  the  man  go  away,  I  was  thinking  that 
if  England  were  governing  Turkey,  how  delightful 
everything  would  be.  Yes,  England  would  be  the 
one  nation  to  succeed  with  Turkey.  America  was 
too  bustling,  after  all,  and  had  too  little  experience. 
Germany  had  too  much  paternalism  and  discipline ; 
Austria-Hungary  lacked  fundamental  honesty;  while 
as  for  Russia  —  that  ought  never  to  be.  Russian 
bureaucracy,  grafted  on  the  corrupt  Turkish  stem, 
would  change  matters  from  bad  to  worse.  But  Eng 
land,  with  her  love  of  order  and  decency,  and  with 
just  enough  discipline  to  put  matters  to  rights  - 
how  delightful  it  would  be,  and  how  the  Turks  would 
enjoy  stopping  whatever  they  were  doing,  at  four 
292 


o'clock,  to  have  tea!  Alas!  between  Mr.  Gladstone's 
indiscreet  utterances,  and  Elliot's  bad  management, 
England  let  her  hour  slip  by,  and  Turkey  was  de 
prived  of  her  one  chance  to  be  regenerated. 

Giaour  threw  back  his  head  and  emitted  a  howl. 
It  was  strident  and  harsh,  the  howl  of  the  plains 
of  Asia;  for  Giaour  was  of  the  blood  of  the  once 
monarchs  of  the  East,  though  now  he  was  a  ragged, 
diseased  dog  —  scavenger,  and  soldier  of  fortune. 

Lovingly  my  hand  patted  his  old  head.  "Ah, 
Giaour,  my  boy,  these  are  hard  days  for  thee  and  thy 
race,  and  even  I  am  recreant  in  my  heart  to  thee. 
Forgive  me!  Perhaps  the  Powers,  in  not  agreeing 
among  themselves,  have  reached  the  only  possible 
agreement  at  present  —  the  Turk  in  Constanti 
nople.  " 

I  took  his  paws  and  put  them  down.  "Don't  bark 
at  me  again,  old  boy." 

He  waved  his  stub  of  a  tail,  just  a  tiny  bit.  He 
had  eaten  my  bread,  he  had  looked  into  my  eyes, 
yet  he  was  not  quite  certain  of  me.  Perhaps  he,  too, 
had  lost  faith  in  life  and  in  mankind. 

On  leaving  Giaour  I  plunged  into  that  tangle  of 
streets  through  which  one  may  deviously  find  one's 
way  to  Kara-keuy.  To  a  stranger  it  is  a  veritable 
labyrinth;  but  though  I  have  little  sense  of  orienta 
tion,  I  could  still  find  my  way  through  it.  It  is  one 

293 


of  the  few  thoroughly  Oriental  quarters  left  on  this 
side  of  the  Galata  Bridge. 

Arrived  at  Kara-keuy,  I  stopped  happily,  watching 
the  life  about  me.  How  delightfully  —  how  terribly 
—  everything  was  the  same.  From  afar  I  heard  a 
cry  —  "Varda!"  —and  then  saw  the  half -clad  figure 
of  the  runner,  who,  waving  a  red  flag  to  right  and  to 
left,  was  warning  pedestrians  that  the  street-car  was 
coming.  Ah!  this  was,  indeed,  my  Constantinople, 
disdained  by  progress,  forgotten  by  time.  How 
emblematic  was  this  runner  before  the  street-car. 
He  reminded  me  of  the  cynical  words  of  the  crafty 
Russian  statesman,  Ignatief,  who  once  exclaimed: 
"They  talk  of  regenerating  Turkey  —  as  if  that  were 
possible  even  to  the  Almighty  above. " 

My  dear,  dear  Turkey!  She  may  start  over  again 
in  Asia,  but  be  regenerated  in  Europe  —  ? 

For  a  little  while  I  walked  on,  and  then  entering 
a  small  confectioner's  shop,  frequented  only  by  Turks 
and  squatting  like  them  on  a  low  stool,  I  ordered 
a  kourous's  worth  of  boughatcha.  I  ate  it  with  my 
fingers,  like  the  others.  Near  me  sat  two  young 
students  of  theology,  talking  politics.  Their  tone  as 
much  as  their  words  made  me  see  bloodshed.  In 
some  ways  the  Turks  are  one  of  the  finest  races,  but 
they  have  been  losing  ground  for  the  last  two  hun 
dred  years  and  it  hurts  them,  and  in  their  hurt  they 
294 


see  red.  No  wonder  they  make  others  see  it,  too. 
The  conversation  of  the  young  softas  was  full  of  the 
sanguine  color.  This  was  shortly  after  1897.  Turkey 
had  just  defeated  Greece,  and  the  old  feeling  of 
arrogance  was  uppermost  in  the  breasts  of  Maho 
met's  followers. 

"Fork  them  out!  Fork  them  out,  the  giaours," 
cried  the  younger  of  the  two.  "They  are  only  fit  for 
fodder,  those  Christian  dogs. " 

I  should  have  liked  to  linger  over  my  boughatcka, 
but  the  tension  of  the  tone  betrayed  a  heat  above 
the  normal.  I  paid  my  kourous,  and  left  the  shop, 
praying  both  to  the  Christian  God  and  to  the  Moham 
medan  one  that  they  might  let  these  misguided 
children  see  stretches  of  peaceful  green,  instead  of 
always  red. 

Slowly,  slowly,  now,  I  walked  to  the  Galata  Bridge, 
and  turned  to  the  right,  just  behind  the  karakol 
which  houses  the  main  body  of  the  Galata  police. 
I  was  on  my  way  to  hunt  up  old  Ali  Baba,  my  boat 
man,  him  with  whom  years  ago  I  had  shared  the 
raptures  of  the  Byzantine  history.  My  heart  was 
beating  fast.  Would  Turkey  play  me  false  this  once? 
Would  the  one  living  landmark  of  my  past  be  chosen 
as  the  one  to  mark  a  change  in  that  changeless 
country? 

,    Hastening,  I  yet  found  myself  lingering  in  my 

295 


haste.  If  his  place  were  to  be  empty,  if  he  were 
really  gone,  having  himself  been  rowed  over  the 
river  Styx,  would  it  not  be  better  for  me  not  to  go 
there,  but  always  to  remember  his  place  filled  by  his 
kindly  presence? 

Though  reasoning  thus,  my  feet  still  took  me 
onward  to  where  he  used  to  be,  and  there,  at  his 
accustomed  place,  sat  AH  Baba,  his  face  looking 
like  a  nice  red  apple,  wrinkled  by  the  sun  and  rain. 
I  went  and  stood  before  him. 

"Ali  Baba!"  I  said,  tears  in  my  voice. 

He  rose,  a  trifle  less  quickly  than  he  used  to,  and 
stared  at  me  incredulously. 

"Benim  kuchouk,  hanoum,"  he  said  slowly,  rub 
bing  his  eyes. 

"Oh!  it  is  I!"  I  cried,  "it  is  I!"  —  and  gave  him 
both  my  hands. 

We  walked  toward  the  little  caique,  where  he  took 
some  time  to  unfasten  the  rope.  We  did  not  speak 
until  he  had  rowed  again  midway  under  the  bridge. 

"Where  have  you  been,  all  these  many,  many 
years?"  he  asked  reproachfully. 

"I  have  been  to  America,"  I  replied,  "the  newest 
and  biggest  of  all  countries"  —  and  as  of  old  I  was 
talking,  and  he  was  listening;  only  this  time  it  was 
not  of  the  past,  and  of  the  people  who,  having  done 
their  work,  were  dead  and  forgotten,  but  of  a  coun- 
296 


try  of  a  great  present,  and  a  still  greater  future.  And 
as  of  old,  his  face  was  full  of  interest  and  kindness. 

Presently  he  asked,  "But,  my  little  lady,  what 
have  you  done  with  the  roses  of  your  face?  You 
are  pale  and  worn  out. " 

"One  has  to  work  hard  in  America,"  I  replied. 
"  It  is  a  country  which  requires  your  best,  your  ut 
most,  if  you  are  to  succeed."  And  again  I  went  on 
to  tell  him  of  the  fast  trains  which  go  sixty  miles  an 
hour,  of  the  elevated  trains,  flying  above  the  middle 
of  the  streets,  and  of  the  preparations  for  the  sub 
ways,  which  were  to  burrow  in  the  depths  of  the  city. 

"But  why  are  they  working  so  hard  and  preparing 
so  much?"  he  asked,  a  bit  bewildered.  "After  all, 
they  will  have  to  die,  and  when  they  are  dead,  they 
can  only  have  a  grave  like  anybody  else." 

I  shook  my  head.  "They  are  making  away  with 
the  graves,  my  Ali  Baba.  They  have  invented  a 
quicker  and  more  expedient  way  of  getting  rid  of 
the  body.  They  place  it  on  a  table  in  a  special  room, 
and  within  two  hours  all  that  is  left  of  it  is  a  simple 
white  strip  of  clean  ashes." 

He  gasped.  "They  have  done  that!"  he  cried  in 
horror.  "They  have  done  that!  Allah,  canst  thou 
forgive  them?"  He  leaned  toward  me,  earnestness 
and  entreaty  in  his  kind  face.  "Don't  go  back  there, 
my  little  one;  don't  go  back  there  again.  It  is  an 

297 


accursed  country  which  steals  the  peace  from  the 
living,  their  bodies  from  the  dead,  and  robs  a  child 
of  her  roses.  Say  that  you  are  not  going  back,  my 
little  one." 

Again  I  shook  my  head.  "When  I  left  there,  my 
Ali  Baba,  I  bought  my  return  ticket.  I  wear  it  like 
an  amulet  around  my  neck.  I  am  going  back  as 
soon  as  my  presence  is  no  longer  needed  here." 

He  let  his  oars  drop.  "You  are  going  back?"  he 
asked  with  awe;  "but  why?" 

I  looked  at  him,  and  beyond  him  at  old  Byzantium 
—  once  Greek,  now  full  of  minarets  and  mosques 
and  all  they  stood  for.  A  red  Turkish  flag  floated 
idly  against  the  indigo  sky. 

Why  was  I  going  back  to  that  vast  new  country, 
so  diametrically  different  from  his  own?  Could  I 
explain  to  him?  No,  I  could  not,  any  more  than  I 
could  have  explained,  years  ago,  to  my  little  Turkish 
Kiamele  the  meaning  of  my  great-uncle's  gift  on  my 
fifth  birthday. 

"Why  are  you  going  back?"  Ali  Baba  insisted. 

No  —  I  could  not  tell  him.  He  could  not  under 
stand.  His  flag  was  the  Crescent  —  mine  was  the 
Cross. 

THE    END 


(3Tbr 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .    S    .   A 


SOME  PAGES  FROM  THE 
LIFE  OF  TURKISH  WOMEN 


By  DEMETRA  VAKA 


"  A  remarkable  description  of  the  life  and  manner 
of  thinking  of  Turkish  women.  The  author  offers 
wholly  new  pictures  of  Turkish  home  life,  and  presents 
fairly  the  Turkish  woman's  views  of  polygamy,  of 
subjection  to  man,  and  of  religious  duty." 

New  York  Sun. 

"  A  striking  story.  .  .  .  Presents  an  illuminating 
picture  of  harem  life.  .  .  .  Decidedly  a  book  that  is 
worth  reading."  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  Every  chapter  is  a  revelation  to  the  American 
reader.  The  refreshing  stimulus  of  conditions  alto 
gether  new  permeates  the  book,  and  the  variety  of 
experience  and  of  personalities,  the  delights  and  the 
discomforts,  the  romance  and  the  tedium,  the  happi 
ness  and  the  griefs,  combine  to  make  a  narrative 
diverting  and  illuminating."  -  Kansas  City  Star. 

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IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  ISLAM 

By  DEMETRA  VAKA 


"  This  is  a  fine  novel,  and  it  is  something  more,  nothing  less 
than  a  contribution  to  world  politics,  in  which  race  character 
istics  must  of  necessity  have  a  large  influence." 

London  Spectator. 

"  No  other  writer  could  infuse  so  much  passion,  charm  and 
mystery  into  its  romantic  surroundings ;  no  other  could  draw 
with  such  nice  discrimination  the  women  of  three  alien  nation 
alities." 

Milwaukee  Free  Press. 

"  A  strong  and  interesting  picture  of  Oriental  life  as  well  as 
a  striking  study  of  the  forces  which  determine  present  social 
and  political  conditions  in  Turkey." 

JVeiv  Orleans  Picayune. 

"  The  seething  unrest  in  Turkey  is  well  brought  out  in 
Demetra  Vaka's  '  In  the  Shadow  of  Islam.'  " 

Philadelphia  Telegraph. 

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The  Story  of  Waitstill  Baxter 

By  KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN 


"  It  cannot  fail  to  prove  a  delight  of  delights  to  '  Rebecca 
of  Sunnybrook  Farm'  enthusiasts."  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  All  admirers  of  Jane  Austen  will  enjoy  Waitstill  Baxter. 
.  .  .  The  solution  the  reader  must  find  out  for  himself. 
It  is  a  triumph  of  ingenuity.  The  characters  are  happy  in 
their  background  of  Puritan  village  life.  The  drudgery, 
the  flowers,  the  strictness  in  morals  and  the  narrowness 
of  outlook  all  combine  to  form  a  harmonious  picture."  — 
The  London  Times. 

"  Always  generously  giving  of  her  best,  and  delightful 
as  that  best  always  is,  Mrs.  Wiggin  has  provided  us  with 
something  even  better  in  '  Waitstill  Baxter.' "  — Montreal 
Star, 

"  In  the  strength  of  its  sympathy,  in  the  vivid  reality  of 
the  lives  it  portrays,  this  story  will  be  accepted  as  the  very 
best  of  all  the  popular  books  that  Mrs.  Wiggin  has  writ 
ten  for  an  admiring  constituency."  —  Wilmington  Every 
Evening. 

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OTHERWISE  PHYLLIS 

By  Meredith  Nicholson 


"  The  most  delightful  novel-heroine  you  've  met  in 
a  long  time.  You  like  it  all,  but  you  love  Phyllis."  — 
Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  A  true-blue,  genuine  American  girl  of  the  2Oth 
century, "  —  Boston  Globe. 

"  Phyllis  is  a  fine  creature.  .  .  .  '  Otherwise  Phyllis ' 
is  a  'comfortable,  folksy,  neighborly  tale'  which  is 
genuinely  and  unaffectedly  American  in  its  atmos 
phere  and  point  of  view" -  —  Hamilton  Wright  Mabie, 
in  the  Oiitlook. 

" '  Phil '  Kirkwood  —  « Otherwise  Phyllis  '  —  is  a 
creature  to  welcome  to  our  hearth,  not  to  our  shelf, 
for  she  does  not  belong  among  the  things  that  are 
doomed  to  become  musty."  —  Boston  Herald. 

"  Phyllis  is  a  healthy,  hearty,  vivacious  young  woman 
of  prankish  disposition  and  inquiring  mind.  .  .  . 
About  the  best  example  between  book  covers  of  the 
American  girl  whose  general  attitude  toward  mankind 
is  one  of  friendliness." — Boston  Advertiser. 

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HAGAR 

By  Mary  Johnston 

"  Hagar  will  stand  out  as  one  of  the  splendid  woman 
characters  of  modern  fiction  —  serene  and  strong,  an 
ideal  feminist  and  a  thorough  American."  —  Portland 
(Me.}  Telegram. 

"A  splendid  story  .  .  .  not  the  least  part  of  its 
charm  is  that  delightful  atmosphere  of  Virginia  family 
life  with  which  Miss  Johnston's  readers  are  familiar." 
—  Baltimore  Evening  Sun. 

"  A  powerful  plea  for  woman  suffrage  in  the  guise 
of  gripping  fiction."  -  Springfield  Republican. 

"  Feminism  has  never  had  a  more  human  exposition. 
It  is  a  book  notable  for  sane  methods  as  well  as  a 
delightful  plot."  —Literary  Digest. 

"Hagar  is  one  of  the  most  admirable  of  Miss 
Johnston's  creations  and  the  novel  is  a  worthy  addition 
to  Miss  Johnston's  works."  —  Philadelphia  Record. 

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NOVEMBER  JOE 


By  Hesketh  Prichard 


"  All  detective  stories  are  cast  in  the  same  mould  save 
the  stories  of  November  Joe,  for  he  is  different  from  all 
other  detectives.  His  field  is  the  great  woods,  which  he 
reads  as  accurately  as  the  city  detective  reads  his  paper, 
and  with  finer,  truer  deductions."  —  Wilmington  Every 
Evening. 

"  A  match  for  Sir  Conan  Doyle's  famous  hunter  of  crim 
inals."  —  Living  Age. 

"  The  stories  gain  by  their  forest  setting.  It  is  some 
thing  of  a  novelty  for  the  city  man  to  follow  detective 
romance  through  deep  woods,  along  bear  paths  and  across 
the  dark  lakes  of  the  north.  Mr.  Prichard  has  done  well." 
—  New  York  World. 

"  Well  written,  with  an  out-of-door  feeling  which  is  de 
lightful  because  unaffected,  the  book  affords  the  best  of 
recreation."  —  Congregationalist. 

"  '  November  Joe '  is  emphatically  a  readable  volume  ; 
one  ends  it  craving  for  more."  —  Milwaukee  Free  Press. 

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